


Out of The Frying Pan and Into The Fire

by S_G_M



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coin, Complete, Divorce, F/M, Family, Gaol - Freeform, Gay, Love, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Panic Attacks, Prison, Torture, Villains, mental health, panic disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 37,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_G_M/pseuds/S_G_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Between John's trouble in letting go of certain feelings that he still has for Mary, Sherlock's returned panic attacks, and the return of someone from Sherlock's past that could mean only terrible things, life is anything but simple at 221 B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was the middle of the night, when Sherlock Holmes awoke to his heart pounding swiftly in his chest, as his breath came in shallow bursts.

He felt something of a dull pain in the left side of his chest beneath his ribcage that spread to the centre of his ribs.

Sherlock attempted to slow his respiration as he took his pulse.

It was notably faster than the typical resting heart rate, though not quick enough to denote a symptom of a heart attack.

He felt light-headed as he laid there, two fingers pressed against the radial artery in his left wrist as he monitored his pulse.

Sherlock was uncomfortable, yes, however he knew that he wasn’t in any sort of immediate danger.

John stirred beside him in the bed, triggering Sherlock’s heart to beat faster.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to simply breathe normally, which was more challenging than he would have admitted.

The main reason for his lack of unease was that he had experienced this sort of thing many, many times in the past; that is to say, that while he did feel the familiar nagging anxiety that came with such an attack, it wasn’t the sort that would instigate Sherlock ringing for emergency medical services.

Granted, it had been a great number of years since such an occurrence had taken place, with the last time having been back when he had been at university.

 

Sherlock had been diagnosed with panic disorder as a young child, and while his parents had been exceptionally supportive and caring in this regard, Mycroft had not, finding the episodes entirely ridiculous.

He hadn’t been very kind at all whenever Sherlock had begun to plummet into panic, leaving him more or less to deal with it alone, thinking that it would help Sherlock in the long run.

Often, this would cast Sherlock deeper into the bout.

Being alone always made things worse.

 

Sherlock was finding it more problematic to simply breathe, and though this had only been going on for perhaps five minutes, it felt like an eternity.

He did his best to simply focus on respiring and endeavouring to relax.

He wanted to wake John, to have John help him through this.

But, the last thing he wanted was to worry John.

And besides, if John found out about it, then Sherlock would have to put up with the concern that it would provoke.

 

Of course, the episode soon subsided, as panic attacks always do, leaving Sherlock exhausted.

He stared up at the ceiling,  attempting to allow his mind to clear even a little.

Panic attacks always had sent his mind reeling, shrieking with too many thoughts for even him to properly handle.

After a half hour of gazing up at the spackled ceiling and failing to fall back into sleep, he turned onto his side.

He peered at John thoughtfully, pondering what he might be dreaming of in order to focus his brain on solely one thing.

Mercifully, that worked.

Sherlock hadn’t been able to get any more slumber that night, but had been able to keep his thoughts more or less quieted, which had been good enough for him.

 

It was a quarter past seven in the morning when John awoke, the sun streaming in through a crack betwixt the ginger coloured curtains.

He immediately noticed how weary Sherlock appeared; his eyes were bloodshot and he had dark rings beneath his eyes, his skin was even milkier than usual and his entire body seemed to sag despite the fact that he was lying down.

John’s eyebrows knit together in concern as he leaned in, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s forehead in order to gauge whether or not he was fevered.

Sherlock was just a touch warm, which didn’t mean much of anything, really.

“I’m fine, John.”  Sherlock told him reassuringly, supressing a yawn.

John did not look convinced in the least.

Nobody looked like that and felt ‘fine’.

“What was it that was keeping you up last night?”   John asked him, figuring that Sherlock’s problem, if not having come down with something, must have been lack of sleep.

There were no ongoing cases, no extensive experiments, nothing exciting to keep Sherlock up that John could think of.

“It was a simple instance of insomnia.”  Sherlock lied tonelessly, getting out of bed and pulling on a pair of trousers.

There was no point in worrying John over something that might not even happen again, and so he kept quiet about the incident from last night.

John knew that he wasn’t likely to get anything more out of Sherlock, and so he let the subject drop.

He knew that if it was anything that was of importance that Sherlock would likely bring it up sooner or later.

 

After breakfast, Sherlock retired to bed.

He was simply too tired to function well, and so there was no point in vainly attempting to go about his day.

With no plans, John began tidying up around the flat.

After an hour or so, there were no more chores to be done, and he began to feel a bit restless.

It was only around 11:30 when John decided to go out.

Greg was busy at work, and couldn’t possibly take a break until at least mid-afternoon, so paying him a visit was out.

He’d rather have not seen Anderson, despite him having turned out to be a decent enough bloke.

Mary, however, was free.

Despite what had turned out to be an appallingly disappointing marriage, after the divorce they had managed to maintain a surprisingly good friendship.

And so, Mary, John, and their son Michael had gone to one of their favourite parks.

John had sworn to himself and to Mary, that in spite of the way things had turned out, that he would be the best father that he could be to Michael.

He saw the tot twice a week, taking him every other weekend, and making certain to help provide for anything that Michael needed.

John also came by unannounced with things that he knew Mary needed for either herself or for Michael.

John ruffled the soft, messy hair that topped his son’s head and laid him down on the furry blanket that had been spread out on the ground.

“He really has grown over the past while.”  He said, smiling down at the lad proudly.  “And he’s started to pick up the sign language, the clever little thing.”

Mary beamed, nodding as she sat down beside the infant.

She had thought that teaching Michael sign language early on would not only be useful in finding out what he wanted or needed before he could speak, but would also be a useful skill later on in life.

 “Yeah, I know.”  She replied happily, reaching out and grabbing a pudgy little hand.  “It’s hard to believe that he’s nearly a year old now…”

John sat down beside her, feeling a pang in his heart.

It was difficult.

He loved Sherlock; he couldn’t deny that in the least.

John had always felt something special for that strange, wonderful man.

But, Mary…  He still loved her in some small way, and that hurt.

It wasn’t as though John would rather have been with her, but sometimes he wondered how things would be now if their relationship had worked out for the best.

John sighed heavily.

“I know that sigh, what is it?”  Mary asked him softly, as Michael began to close his blue eyes.

John shook his head.

Mary bit her lip.

It was obvious that she still cared for him as well, and that made things all the more difficult for John.

John blinked, looking internally troubled.

Being here with Michael and Mary, it felt…  Right.

He knew that this was not something he would likely ever have with Sherlock, and he’d accepted that.

Even if he and Sherlock did have children, he wasn’t confident that it would be quite the same.

What he had with Mary, even now, was so different than what he ever had with Sherlock.

John couldn’t put it into words, but whatever he and Mary shared, it was something unique.

And, it was frustrating.

Mary peered at him in a kind way, trying to figure out what it was that was upsetting John.

“Maybe we should cut things short this time…  I’ve some shopping that needs doing, anyway…”  Mary suggested, feeling that it must be her fault somehow.

Ever since she’d messed things up so badly that first time, Mary often felt as though she was the root cause whenever John became distant or upset.

Perhaps that was silly, but she felt it difficult to stop that way of thinking.

“…  It’s fine, I’m just feeling a bit off today.”  He assured her, giving her a small forced smile.  “It’s nothing, really.”

Mary tilted her head.

“It’s not, though, is it?”  She asked him knowingly, her tone genuine.  “I know this is hard for you.  It’s hard for me, too.”

John had tried very hard not to let on how miserable these visits ultimately made him.

He enjoyed them for the most part, but they had left him feeling awfully hollow inside each and every time.

It was as if there was a small hole in him somewhere that being with Mary and Michael filled.

“…  I don’t know how to make things better, John.  I very much doubt if it’s going to get any easier as time goes on.”  She added.

John had felt the same way.

“We’ll just have to keep trying.  For Michael’s sake, if nothing else.”  John stated, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

He looked away from Mary, letting his eyes drift up to the clouds above them. 

Mary gave him a sad smile, understanding completely how he felt.

“I agree.”  She told him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

 

Sherlock couldn’t manage more than a couple of hours rest, before he decided to give up on the notion.

He got properly dressed, and headed out into the den.

He called out for John, promptly realising that he must have gone out.

Sherlock reached into his inner jacket pocket for his mobile, finding a text message awaiting him.

It pertained to a missing coin.

Not just any coin, but an exceptionally rare mid-1930’s sovereign bearing the head of Edward VIII and struck before abdication.

Not overly interesting, though it was at least something to possibly occupy him for a brief while.

Sherlock responded to the text with a request that the potential client arrive at 221 B for further discussion regarding the matter.

The woman, a Marcie Delacroix, texted back with the time she would drop by that afternoon.

With the brief conversation over, Sherlock placed the mobile back in his pocket, and sat down in his chair to finish a book that he’d begun two days previously.

 

John arrived home feeling cranky, and he’d shut the door a little roughly behind him.

Sherlock watched him carefully, knowing full well what it was that was troubling John.

He didn’t dare say anything, not wanting to instigate a quarrel.

While the situation wasn’t ideal, Sherlock hadn’t purposely swayed John either way when it came to relationships.

John alone had made his decisions, and whether or not he’d made the right calls, he was feeling the weight of his choices.

Sherlock knew that it was highly improbable that John would leave him, even for Mary.

No, it was far more likely that John would steep in bitterness and regret, destroying himself.

“Don’t say a word.”  John warned him, surprising himself with the amount of anger in his tone.

He half-wanted to apologise, but was too moody to actually act on the urge.

Sherlock merely averted his eyes, and feigned continuing his reading.

He felt his pulse beginning to steadily rise again.

Sherlock swallowed.

He slowly stood up, and headed to the washroom, locking the door behind him.

He sat on the side of the tub, beginning to feel worse.

His chest began hurting again, as he felt sick to his stomach.

Sherlock despised being alone at a time like this, just as he had all those times before.

He could have managed being alone any time other than when he was having a panic attack.

It was then that he felt solitude to a painful degree.

Sherlock felt incredibly weak-minded when this sort of thing happened, felt like his own brain was betraying him.

His breath came in sharp bursts, as he tried his best to control it.

If he wasn’t careful, he would begin hyperventilating.

He decided to see if letting some air in would help.

Sherlock opened the window unsteadily, knocking a can of aerosol air freshener to the floor, along with a hideous glass duck that John had picked up at a second hand shop.

The duck shattered noisily on the floor, as the can skittered along, coming to a halt as it clanked sharply against the door.

“Everything okay?”  John asked through the door on his way to the bedroom.

He wasn’t in a good mood, but he knew that Sherlock hadn’t been feeling up to snuff earlier and had noticed that he had still looked a bit peaky before leaving the den.

Sherlock couldn’t manage an answer, as he took in gasps of cool outside air.

He could hear John try the doorknob.

“Sherlock?”  John called out, a note of clear concern in his voice. 

Unable to stand having John on the other side of the door, Sherlock managed to get up and unlock the knob, his need for John to be close to him becoming overwhelming.

John walked in, revealing a weak looking Sherlock leaning heavily against the bathroom countertop.

Upon seeing Sherlock’s hand pressed against the left side of his chest, John’s fingers flew to Sherlock’s carotid vein.

“Okay, we’re getting you to a hospital.”  John stated firmly, whipping out his mobile and beginning to ring for an ambulance.

Sherlock shook his head.

“No.”  He managed to tell John stubbornly, reaching for the phone. 

John raised an eyebrow, setting his jaw.

“Heart palpitations are nothing to take lightly, Sherlock.  Especially when they are accompanied with breathing difficulties.”  John replied, trying to remain calm as he checked Sherlock’s pupils.

Sherlock grabbed the phone from John, who looked highly unimpressed.

“Panic…  attack...”  Sherlock explained between slowly evening breaths.

John blinked, unsure if he’d heard Sherlock properly.

Sherlock closed his eyes as the sensations began to fade.

John would never have suspected Sherlock Holmes would suffer from such a thing as panic attacks.

 

 

It was a few minutes before Sherlock felt capable of moving under his own strength.

With John beside him, an arm around his torso for both comfort and support, Sherlock made it to the bedroom.

“How long has this been happening, exactly?”  John asked softly, sitting down on the bed beside Sherlock.

Sherlock’s head felt a little fuzzy as it had always been after an episode.  “One took place last night, and then again just now.”

John frowned.

“Is this new?”  He asked gently, brushing a stray curl from Sherlock’s forehead, his foul mood replaced by one of loving concern.

“No, however it has been a good number of years.”  Sherlock answered truthfully, feeling very thirsty.

He began to get out of bed.

“Oh, no you don’t.”  John told him stubbornly making him lay back down.  “What do you need?  I’ll get it for you.”

Sherlock sighed heavily, feeling useless.

This was exactly what he had expected to happen if John found out…

“Only a glass of water, but you needn’t wait on me.”  Sherlock responded, and John promptly waved his reply away and went to pour him a cool glass of water.

He returned a few moments later, and Sherlock downed the entire glassful instantly.

“Thank-you, John.”  Sherlock said politely, appreciating the gesture.

John nodded.  “Mmm-hmm.”  He intoned, looking worried.  “Now, is there anything else I can do?” 

Sherlock told him that he needed nothing, but appreciated the offer.

“I’m… Sorry.”  Sherlock apologised in a quiet voice, feeling a twinge of guilt.

“For what?”  John asked curiously.

There was nothing for Sherlock to apologise for.

Certainly, he’d been himself, which could be a little aggravating at times, but other than that…

Sherlock gave a nearly imperceptible shrug.

“I’m just sorry.”  He replied vaguely, pulling the covers up to his chest.

All was silent for a few moments.

“John…  I need you to promise me something.”  Sherlock began solemnly.

“Yes?”  John asked, listening closely.

Sherlock took a breath before continuing.

“You are a truly wonderful man, John, and I do love you.”  He stated in his deep voice.  “You deserve a good life.  Which is why should you ever feel the need to leave me, then that’s what I want you to do.  I don’t ever want you to feel trapped here.”

Sherlock’s eyes looked a touch sad as he said this.

John swallowed as he realised why Sherlock might be saying this.

“No, Sherlock, I’m never going to leave you.  I love you.”  John assured him, holding onto Sherlock’s bony hand.  “What Mary and I almost had, well, it was something great.  But, it wasn’t like with us; I never felt that incredible love and passion for her as I do you.”

John looked deeply into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Things might be a little complicated in some ways, but I would never dream of leaving, Sherlock.”  John continued firmly.  “Not now, not ever.”

Sherlock wanted to be able to believe that last bit.

John would almost certainly stay, however it was possible that he might soon enough dream about fleeing from Sherlock.

It had been a strange enough thing for Sherlock to find love at all, though while he hoped that it would last, he didn’t really expect it to.

After all, someone like him shouldn’t be in a relationship; it could never end well.

Could it?

He didn’t dare to believe it.

Sherlock would take in and enjoy every moment he had with John, but he didn’t want to have his heart broken.

If John was to leave, whether sooner or later, then if Sherlock expected it to happen, it shouldn’t hurt quite so much.

 “Just promise me.”  Sherlock requested once more.  “And don’t forget to honour it should the time come.”

John frowned.

“No, now stop that nonsense.  You’re being ridiculous.”  He said, beginning to feel a twinge of uneasiness.

Sherlock wasn’t always an easy person to figure out, and though he didn’t know what he’d done to make Sherlock think that he would go back to Mary or leave him for anyone else, he felt a twinge of guilt.

Sherlock leaned against the headboard, propping himself against one of the soft, down pillows.

John was beginning to wish he’d just stayed in bed.

The day was just not going well at all, and he was beginning to get a headache.

Instead of dwelling on how he felt, he began thinking instead about Sherlock’s returned panic attacks.

“Were you ever on any sort of medication for panic or anxiety in the past?”  He inquired, wondering if he ought to pick up something to help alleviate the symptoms.

“Look at you switching into medical mode…  You know how I enjoy that, John.”  Sherlock teased gently, earning himself a half-annoyed look from John.  “No, I was never prescribed medication for the disorder.”

John tried to think of what might have triggered the attacks in the first place.

“And nothing’s been bothering you?”  John asked, wanting to find a way to prevent any future episodes, suspecting that perhaps what Sherlock had tried to make him promise might have been a culprit.

Seeing Sherlock like that was difficult, especially when there was virtually nothing that he could do to help.

There had been genuine fear in those cool, blue eyes back in the bathroom.  That was a rare occurrence, and had been rather unsettling.

Sherlock answered with a simple ‘No.’

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

His headache was in full swing now, and he could tell that it would probably stick around for a while.

“Lie down with me.”  Sherlock told him, wanting to be held. 

John paused for a moment, before deciding to listen, lying on his side facing the man he loved.

“Put your arm around me.”  Sherlock commanded gently, closing his eyes.

John was used to being told what to do, vocal or otherwise, when it came to Sherlock and affection.

The man was very clear about what he did and did not want, and though Sherlock’s manner could seem somewhat cold, John knew that it wasn’t meant to be.

Sherlock rolled closer and felt John’s familiar arm drape heavily over his abdomen.

For a while, they just lay there, listening to the sounds of the city filtering through the bedroom window.

It wasn’t very long before John found himself feeling very comfortable and relaxed, and to his pleasant surprise, he found his headache beginning to dissipate.

 

The couple napped together until there was a knock at the front door and a ‘Yoo-hoo, Sherlock… John… You’ve got a client.’ Followed by an ‘Honestly, you two have really got to start answering the doorbell!’

John opened his eyes, blinking a few times to acclimatise to the light once more, before getting up to greet the visitor.

Sherlock stirred, and after a moment, followed John into the den where a middle aged brunette woman stood in the entranceway.

Mrs. Hudson had already left.

John silently cursed under his breath.

He adored Mrs. Hudson, though he’d never liked the way she was completely comfortable permitting people into their flat.

Not to mention the number of times she had nearly gotten an eyeful when coming into the flat unannounced for whatever reason.

He’d never said a word about it to her, knowing that she didn’t mean anything rude by it.

“Afternoon.”  John greeted the woman, encouraging her to come into the flat properly.

She gave him a nod and walked into the den to where John and Sherlock stood.

“Back at ya.”  She replied huskily in her heavy Texan drawl.  “You Holmes?”

John shook his head, gesturing to Sherlock, who gave her a very brief smile.

“Miss Delacroix.”  He greeted her, before asking her to take a seat and giving John the few details that she had texted to him that morning.

Marcie sat almost enthusiastically.

“Thank goodness, I’ve been on my feet all day!”  She said, flipping her long curly hair over one shoulder and adjusting her bosom.  “I don’t suppose you’d have something for a lady to drink around here, would you?”

She looked at them both expectantly, and John fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and passed it to her.

Marcie gave him a fake smile.

“I was hoping for something…  Stronger, if you get my drift.”  She told him with a touch of disappointment in her tone, a frown on her swiftly aging face.

Sherlock exchanged glances with John before looking to Marcie.

“Yes, well, let’s get on with this, shall we?”  He asked, resting his arms on the chair.  “The sovereign; give me specifics.  Where it was last seen, who had access to it, who knew the value of such an item, and so on.”  

Marcie set the glass on the coffee table, ignoring it with a hint of distaste.

“Well, the last time I saw the coin it was in the little green velvet pouch where I always keep it, in a special pocket in my purse.”  She began.  “I carry it with me for good luck, you know?”

She gave a little shrug at this, before continuing.

“I suppose that technically, quite a number of people could have had access to it, since I often check my purse in whenever I go out to restaurants and places.”   Marcie didn’t seem to think that this was in any way a bad idea.  “After all, it is a pretty big junk bag, isn’t it?  I don’t want to be stuck keeping it with me all the time.” 

At this point, she laughed at what she thought was a funny joke and held up her bag.

Sherlock kept his face blank, but John could tell that this woman was beginning to annoy him.

“Right, and who knew that you had this rarity in your possession?”  He asked, crossing his legs and hoping that her story would begin to get interesting.

It did not.

Marcie thought for a moment.

“I’ve spoken about it to a few people back home, and all of my family knows about it.”  She answered.  “But, it went missing after I got here to the U.K. and I haven’t spoken to anyone about it since arriving.”

Marcie frowned.

“Oh, wait, no that’s not completely true.  I got to talking about it with a gentleman on the plane, and he brought it up after we landed as we walked through the airport.”  She added thoughtfully.  “But, he was a nice man.  It wasn’t him.”

John began to wonder about this woman.

She was beginning to seem downright ridiculous.

“So, six days ago.”  Sherlock stated, surprising her.

She grinned broadly.

“Well, yes, but I hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”  Marcie pointed at him.  “Oh, you are good!”

Sherlock stood up.

“So I’ve been told.”  He took out his mobile and sent a short text.  “Why have you come to me, rather than the local police?”

Marcie shrugged again.

“I didn’t want any sort of publicity.  With a coin like that, the story would surely hit the papers.”  She said, adjusting her breasts once more.

John averted his eyes, preferring to look over at the skull on the mantle.

“You gay or something?”  She asked him in a judgemental sort of way.

“Or something.”  John replied shortly, not appreciating her attitude.

She gave him a mild glare.  “Hmm.”  She intoned in disbelief, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable around John and wondering if she should just leave.

But, she decided to stay and see what the consulting detective had to say about her precious coin and whether he could locate it.

For the next twenty minutes, the conversation about the sovereign continued.

But then, they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come in.”  Sherlock called out, and in came Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

“That her?”  He asked Sherlock, looking at the woman.

Marcie shifted nervously in her chair, desperately looking for a way out of the flat.

“Obviously.”  Sherlock answered, as Greg took a few steps over to the woman, explaining that she would have to accompany Constable Harris to the station.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock after the constable had left with what John had thought was Marcie Delacroix.

“Would someone mind cluing me in here, please?”  John asked, hating to be left in the dark.

Sherlock turned to John.

“It’s quite simple.”  Sherlock began nonchalantly.  “The woman who came here to hire us to seek out this lost valuable had stolen the item from its most recent owner, the genuine Marcie Delacroix.  It was easy enough for me to see that she’d killed Delacroix in order to obtain the coin.”

John frowned.

“So, it wasn’t really lost at all, then?”  He tried, not making the connection.

It had been a rough day, and he wasn’t at his best.

He was in no mood to play detective today.

“No, that bit was actually true.”  Sherlock answered, as Lestrade watched them from his spot against the wall.  “Along with leaving the sovereign in her purse when she left it with strangers at coat checks.”

Lestrade looked incredulous at this.

“But, that’s just stupid!  She went to all that trouble and then she just left it where anyone could take it?”  He shook his head, looking disgusted.  “I’m just saying; if you’re going to go to all that effort, then why leave it unattended like that?”

John agreed with this.  “Exactly.  It doesn’t make sense.”  He said, wondering what on earth that woman could have been thinking.

After all, she’d slaughtered a woman over it.  One would think that she would want to ensure its security as much as possible.

Sherlock went and put the kettle on.

“Care for some tea, Jeffrey?”  He asked, purposely getting the name wrong.

It did amuse him when Greg would correct him huffily.

At first, Sherlock had genuinely kept forgetting the D.I.’s first name, but now he just enjoyed his little game.

“Gregory!”  Lestrade corrected out of habit, sounding annoyed.  “Greg, actually.  And, yes, thanks.”

Sherlock bit back a devious little grin.

“Ah, yes.  Greg.”  He responded in a mock thoughtful tone, as he poured the boiling water into the cups.

He brought one to John, knowing that he could use a cuppa, before returning for Greg’s and his own beverages.

“So, why did she leave the coin like that?”  Greg asked curiously.

Sherlock gestured with a hand.  “No idea.”  He admitted.

John took a sip of comforting tea.

“So, we’re going to look for the sovereign?”  John asked, thinking that it seemed a dull case in comparison to the usual sort of things they took on.

Greg shook his head.

“No need for that, it’s already been located.”  He told them both matter-of-factly.

 “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”  John asked, thinking that maybe there was potential for things to get interesting after all.

Lestrade tasted his tea, before setting it down to cool a bit.

“Well, you did ask Sherlock for an explanation earlier, so I thought that it would be more polite to wait until afterwards.”  He replied.

Greg always did try not to be rude.

“Where is it?”  Sherlock inquired.  “And, why have you come to me about it?  You’ve already got the sovereign, and I’ve just given you the murderer of its owner.”

“Well, it wasn’t just that we found this rare coin…  There was something else, Sherlock.  Something meant for you.”  Lestrade told him after some hesitation.

Greg looked solemn.

“It was sewn into the leg into the body of the man who’d stolen the coin from the imposter that came by your flat…”  He explained, working his way up to the most important part.   “A note addressed to you, Sherlock.”

Greg paused, a flicker of fear in his brown eyes.

“And, it would appear to be from Moriarty.”  He told Sherlock gravely, looking into his eyes.

Sherlock’s face turned expressionless as he took this information in.

Since Moriarty had seemingly announced to the entire country that he was alive after all, Sherlock had been expecting something to happen.

An attempt on his life, or on his friends lives.  More games that Moriarty had cooked up, just…  Something.

And here it was.

Or, at least seemed to be.

Sherlock felt his pulse rise, though, this time, it was more out of a strange exhilaration.

“What else?”  He asked Lestrade in a demanding tone, certain that there had to be more to it than just a note and a stupid coin.

“That’s it.  Just a note, I’ve got a copy of it here.”  Greg said, reaching into his pocket and passing Sherlock a piece of folded white paper.

John swallowed.

He had been hoping that Moriarty would just leave them alone, even though he knew that if Moriarty was alive that there was no way that would happen.

As long as he still drew breath, then he would always come after Sherlock.

It was an obsession.

John watched as Sherlock unfolded the paper silently.

Sherlock glanced at it momentarily, before passing it to John.

There were two words on the paper.  ‘Get Sherlock.’

“What does it mean?”  John asked, feeling the beginnings of nervousness in the pit of his stomach.

Moriarty had taken Sherlock from him for two incredibly long years.

He didn’t know if he could survive losing Sherlock again.

Sherlock looked pensive.

“It’s not much to go on, even for me.”  Sherlock stated.  “But, evidently I have been summoned, though I don’t know why.  Not yet, anyway.”

With Moriarty, it could be a challenge to figure out exactly what it was that he wanted.

And, just when you thought you knew, it would turn out to be something completely different.

 

Soon after that, Greg left, offering to help in any way that he could.

“That woman…  She could be in Moriarty’s employ, then.”  John mumbled more to himself than anything, trying to take it all in and make the most of it.

“She undoubtedly is.  The question is why.”  Sherlock said in response, his hands steepled as he remained pensive.

“She didn’t seem to know anything about me other than my name.  Why would Moriarty hire an American that knows nothing at all about me to steal a rare sovereign and then hire me to find it?  And, why kill the man who takes it from her and embed a message to me in his leg?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he thought.

“There could be some kind of trap laid out, but I doubt it.  Moriarty would prefer something a bit more clever than that.”  Sherlock mused aloud.

“Unless it’s some kind of copycat.”  John pointed out validly.

Sherlock tilted his head.

“Plausible.”  Sherlock admitted, though he didn’t feel like that was the answer.

After a moment or two of silence, Sherlock stood up.

“I need to see that coin for myself.”  He announced, grabbing his jacket.

John went to the bedroom, pulling on a strangely green sweater, and they headed to the station.

 

 

After being granted access to the item, Sherlock perused it through the thin protective packaging.

He brought it close to his eyes, squinting at it.

“There’s some kind of marking on the side…  A tiny engraving of some sort.”  He told John, who looked at it closely.

“I don’t see anything.”  He replied, trying to notice what Sherlock had.

“Of course not, you ought to be wearing your glasses.”  Sherlock pointed out as he brought his magnifying glass out of his pocket to survey the marking better.

“What is it?”  John asked, ignoring Sherlock’s remark about his glasses.

“It’s a tiny dragon…”  Sherlock answered, trying to make the connection between the marking and the case.

He had seen that exact design somewhere before.

He closed his eyes, entering his mind palace.

It was a few minutes before he found what he was looking for.

That same dragon was, or used to be, prominently displayed on a wooden sign outside a pub that he had been to a handful of times nearly nine years ago.

A pub in Wales where he had been forced to kill someone in self-defence.

The man who had attacked him had been the same person that he’d been tracking down at the request of Mycroft.

And, suddenly, it began to make sense.

That man had looked identical to Moriarty, right down to the eyebrows and that one slightly crooked tooth.

Sherlock hadn’t thought about it in years, and for whatever reason, it hadn’t clicked when he met Moriarty face to face that he looked so alike this man that he’d killed.

Moriarty had been the reason that he’d become so interested in pursuing criminals and solving crimes since he was a young boy, and the two had become adversaries when they were both fairly young.

But the fact that Sherlock had quite possibly killed a family member, and with the chance of it being an identical twin, that was all the more reason for Moriarty to come after him.

Why he wanted Sherlock to suffer and die as much as he did.

This was Moriarty’s way of summoning him to that same pub.

There was no room for coincidence.

That dead man was the reason for Moriarty’s calling to him in this way, despite the time that had passed between then and now.

Sherlock passed the coin to the constable that had been supervising them in the evidence room and headed out of the precinct.

John had to speed walk in order to keep up with Sherlock’s quick strides.

“Something’s wrong.  Tell me.”  John ordered, getting worried.

Sherlock stopped.

“I…  Have to take a trip for a few days.”  He said a little strangely.  “I’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow.”

No doubt Moriarty would be there already, considering that he would have timed the crime perfectly.

“Then I’m coming with you.”  John told him firmly.  “You’re not leaving me behind, Sherlock.  I’ve got your back.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

There was no way that he would allow such a thing to happen.

“No, John.  Not this time.”  Sherlock insisted.  “It’s too dangerous.  If things end badly, I want to know that you’re safe.”

John swallowed.

“Now I’m definitely going with you.”  He stated stubbornly.  “If it’s that dangerous, you can’t go alone.”

Sherlock gave John a sad look.

He knew that there was a legitimate chance that he would die at Moriarty’s hands if he chose to go to that pub.

He also knew that should he choose not to, that Moriarty would do his utmost to punish him for not complying, and that almost certainly meant putting his friends and John in danger.

If John came with him, then he could not guarantee his safety.

He would simply have to slip away when John was unaware.

Sherlock refused to put John’s life at risk more than it already was.

“We’ll see.”  Sherlock said in a non-committal fashion.

“No, you’ll see.”  John pointed at him.  “I’m not letting you go alone.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything to this, and they walked the rest of the way home in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

After arriving back at 221 B Baker Street, John had planned on saying something that had felt important to him; however the words never made it out of his mouth.

Often, when something serious would come up, Sherlock would often retreat into his mind, leaving John feeling a bit neglected.

Which was what John had hoped to change just this once, considering how sombre the circumstances where.

But, he had no need to worry.

As soon as John had opened his mouth to express his thoughts, Sherlock promptly quelled the words with kisses.

Sherlock had faced Moriarty in a showdown once and managed to get out alive; he wasn’t fully convinced that he would be so fortunate when it happened again.

Which was why he would spend this night lavishing his attention wholly upon John, striving to make what could turn out to be their last night together a wonderful one.

Sherlock’s lips kissed John’s own over and over, his hands holding John tenderly against his thin body.

He gradually began letting the kisses trail to John’s cheek, over to his jawline, and down the soft skin of John’s neck.

“I love you more than anything, John…  I’ve never said it enough, but it’s true.”  Sherlock whispered, wishing that he could be more like John when it came to expressing such tender feelings.

“I know, Sherlock.”  John murmered back, leaning his head against Sherlock’s chest.  “I love you, too.”

Sherlock  allowed himself to feel each and every emotion, letting the flood of feelings wash over him.

This wasn’t something he often did, as it was always in intense experience that could be uncomfortable, but this time he needed to feel.

This was an extremely important time for them, and Sherlock wanted to take it all in, every facet of it.

Sherlock and John merely stood there for some time, holding one another.

Nothing else mattered in those moments, not a single thing in existence.


	3. Chapter 3

Meanwhile, Jim Moriarty was taking his evening meal at the Slithering Serpent pub in Swansea, chewing a bite of remarkably delicious rare steak.

He had arrived two days ago and was staying in one of the hotel suites above the shabby little drinking establishment.

Sebastian Moran, Jim’s right hand man and occasional lover, had accompanied Jim on this excursion.

They had intended to dine together this evening; however there had been an argument betwixt them and Jim had instructed Sebastian to remain in their suite while he took some air.

It wasn’t as though Jim would have particularly cared whether or not Sebastian had left the room at all.

No, the point of the thing was domination.

Jim knew quite well that Sebastian would hang on his every word and not dare consider disobeying his orders.

Jim took a sip of the vintage merlot before him, relishing the power that he held over this man.

The power that he still held over a staggering number of people despite Sherlock’s attempts to dismantle his operations, was incredibly satisfying.

Yet, with Sebastian there was a distinct variance.

It wasn’t as though he felt any sort of real fondness for Moran whatsoever, although he didn’t exactly detest the man’s company.

Sebastian was merely a tool for Jim to use as he pleased, however that may be.

Sebastian would never deny him anything, and Jim was abundantly aware of that fact.

Perhaps the reason why it felt so poignantly delightful to hold such sway over Sebastian was because he loved Jim.

Jim couldn’t think why Sebastian felt anything than detestation towards him; it wasn’t as though Jim had ever treated him with any hint of true kindness.

Sebastian’s feelings were obvious even without the declarations of love and loyalty that he provided.

It could be nearly disgusting, the displays that Sebastian would put on at times when they were alone.

Jim was not like Sherlock.

Yes, they were both exceptionally intellectual men, yet that was where one drew the line.

The most important difference was that while Sherlock didn’t always want to feel, Jim Moriarty simply _could not_.

‘Psychopath’ was a term that many people had flung at Sherlock, but was a word that fit Jim fairly well.

And yet, Sebastian still stood by him, still felt strongly about him.

 

Once he was finished with his meal, Jim left the table and headed up to the room.

He found Sebastian lying in bed watching a particularly ludicrous pornographic programme, which he’d struggled to turn off as soon as he’d heard the key slide into the lock.

He’d failed to do so, having misplaced the remote, and scrabbled to turn the television set off manually.

Jim ignored him, lying down on his separate bed and staring up at the ceiling, beginning to sink into thought.

Sebastian cleared his throat, still feeling embarrassed about Jim knowing what he’d been viewing.

“I’m sorry, about earlier…  I shouldn’t have argued like that.”  He apologised in his rough voice, fidgeting slightly where he sat.

Jim looked over at him unblinkingly, his black eyes as icy as they always were.

He watched Sebastian for a moment, choosing how to respond.

“I dislike it when you submit so easily.”  He stated tonelessly.  “It makes things even more boring than usual.”

Sebastian apologised once more, before realising that it likely would hardly help him get back into Jim’s good graces.

Sebastian couldn’t help the way he was.

With his line of work and his tall and intimidatingly burly appearance, most people seemed uneasy around him.

But, he was really a nice man.

He was easy going, had an innocent sense of humour, and was a friendly sort of bloke.

Sebastian knew that Jim disliked that he wasn’t as rough and tumble as he appeared, which was why Sebastian had done what he could to become what Jim wanted him to be.

He’d tried very hard to change himself to suit Jim, but that hadn’t worked so far.

Transforming himself like that had proven itself to be too great of a challenge.

It didn’t seem as though anything he did was right when it came to Jim, and that really bothered him.

There was only one reason that he stayed on, and that was because of his feelings for Moriarty.

Jim closed his eyes, getting comfortable.

“You’re looking at me, aren’t you?”  He asked in a gentler tone, his voice taking on a velvety quality.

Sebastian cleared his throat, which was a dead giveaway.

“Enjoying the view, as usual?”  Jim asked in mild amusement, a vague hint of a smile on his thin lips.

Sebastian sighed, hating this game and wondering how he’d ever allowed himself to begin playing it in the first place.

Jim often teased him, getting him riled up for nothing, and then just as quickly as Jim had begun doing this, he would stop.

It was frustrating, and Sebastian didn’t quite know how to deal with it.

Sure, once in a while Jim would incite Sebastian’s libido and they would have a few hours of lusty pleasure.

But, more often than not, Sebastian found himself being turned away in a cruel fashion.

It was all an amusing game to Jim, and one of his favourites to play.

Jim opened his eyes just a fraction to momentarily glance over at Sebastian.

He sat there looking at the ugly greying carpet, just looking fed up and trying not to get his hopes up.

Sebastian had been annoying him all day, it served him right.

Jim began thinking of all the sorts of things that he might do to Sherlock, once he had the chance, as Sebastian asked for permission to leave the room.

Jim granted him this boon, and Sebastian put on his shoes and went for a lengthy walk.

 

 

That night had been far too short for John and Sherlock, who had spent much of it talking and cuddling, striving to ignore what whatever may lie ahead of them.

There was very little time spent sleeping, finding it too difficult.

John was too stressed to take any real rest, and Sherlock would rather spend these few hours with John than sleeping.

He would be able to function well enough with only an hour or two of slumber.

He’d gotten by on less on a number of important occasions.

Before they knew it, the sun had begun to rise.

Sherlock had meant to leave while John was asleep, but had found it to be impossible.

It seemed almost cruel to do such a thing, and even if Sherlock could be insensitive and a touch callous to John from time to time, he had never intended to be cruel to him.

But, now he needed to be getting ready to leave.

He wanted to arrive in Swansea during the day, thinking that the daylight might come in very useful depending on what could take place and how long that might take.

Sherlock took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

He was doing his best to keep his stress levels and blood pressure under control.

The last thing that Sherlock needed was to have another panic attack.

That was something that did concern Sherlock, but he knew that permitting himself to fear the attacks would likely lead to more of them, and so he tried not to focus on it.

“John…  I’ll be leaving in the next hour.”  He announced quietly, and John opened his mouth to argue.  “I shall be going alone.  There’s no point in trying to persuade me to change my mind; that will not happen.”

John pressed his lips together, hating that this time there was exactly nothing that he could do to help.

“All right, fine.”  John replied in resignation, feeling a little sick to his stomach.  He would only hinder Sherlock by continuing to try and convince him to let him go along.  “What can I do before you go?”

Sherlock gave John a kind glance, before getting dressed.

“Nothing.  I have a small bag packed with some items I might need, and I’m not hungry, so there’s no need to prepare breakfast.”  Sherlock answered.

John looked somewhat crestfallen.

He wanted so badly to do something, anything, for Sherlock at this point…

Sherlock bit his lip.

“Though, I suppose that I ought to take a shower before I leave.”  He said nonchalantly, making the bed.  “And, I never can reach that spot on my back…  Why don’t you assist me in getting clean?”

John didn’t mind at all, though he feigned near disinterest.

“I suppose I could do that for you.”  He said with a shrug.  “If there’s really nothing else for me to do.”

Sherlock gave a small half-grin, seeing through the act instantly.

 

It was shortly after 5:00 a.m. when Sebastian awoke due to the sunlight splashing into the room.

The curtains in the suite were sheer, letting the bright morning light into the room with very little filtration.

Sebastian never could sleep very well in anything besides pitch darkness, and considering that there was a streetlamp situated almost directly outside the window, he had quite a restless night.

Jim, on the other hand, with his black silk sleeping mask, was sleeping very soundly and taking up a surprising amount of room for a man of his build.

His hair was mussed, his white t-shirt had ridden up and was exposing his abdomen and a good deal of his subtly muscled chest.

Sebastian couldn’t help but glance over in admiration.

He felt a little creepy about it, so he tried not to look too long.

He always tried never to leer at anyone, not wanting to be viewed as some sort of pervert.

It was difficult, so often being so close to Jim, yet so far.

Jim did not like to be touched, and had been very clear that Sebastian should never touch him without permission.

Sebastian closed his eyes again, trying to go back to sleep as he placed his hands beneath his head in an attempt to get a little more comfortable on the bed that was just a little too small for someone of his stature.

He lay still for what felt like an eternity, desperately hoping for just a bit more sleep.

But, the attempt was in vain.

Even covering his eyes with an arm and shutting out the light completely didn’t help.

No, Sebastian was definitely up for the day, no matter what he might try.

Knowing Jim as well as he did, Sebastian didn’t expect him to be up for at least another hour and a half.

Sebastian would have liked nothing more than to take another walk, seeing if perhaps there was a bakery nearby where he could get some freshly baked bread to munch on.

But, he knew that if he did leave, that Jim would quite likely get upset with him for not clearing it first.

Jim really was a terrible control freak, and while Sebastian could deal with it, that was a part of Jim that Sebastian didn’t like at all.

But, that was just the way that Jim was, and so Sebastian accepted it.

He didn’t expect anyone to change themselves for him; it just seemed a selfish and unfair sort of thing to do.

Sebastian checked the time on his wristwatch and let out a quiet sigh.

It was only nearly 6:00 a.m.

Another forty-five minutes, at least.

He wouldn’t have minded as much if there was at least a book to read.

He couldn’t turn on the television, as the clicking of the knob would certainly wake Jim.

And, he had learned early on not to prematurely wake Jim unless it was some sort of emergency that directly affected him.

There had been only two incidents in the past where he’d felt the need to jolt Jim out of slumber, and both times Jim had punished him for it.

Evidently, unless it was life or death, he was not to wake Jim unless previously instructed.

 

 

After a leisurely lovemaking session in the shower, Sherlock checked the time, put on some clothes and grabbed the small briefcase by the door.

There seemed to be practically no more words to say to one another besides ‘Good-bye’.

“Be careful, Sherlock.”  John said meaningfully, putting his arms around him.

“I will.”  Sherlock promised.  “Try not to worry.  Spend some time with Greg and Mary; that will help keep you occupied.”

John nodded, not wanting to let go of Sherlock.

He had already lost Sherlock once…  John wished there was another way, a less dangerous way, to finally end this.

“I have to go now, John.”  Sherlock told him gently, giving him a squeeze.

John let go hesitantly.

“You call me when you get there, and keep me posted.  Don’t you keep me stressing, all right?”  John told him, sniffing quietly.

Sherlock assured him that he would, and opened the door.

“I’ll see you when I get back.”  Sherlock told him confidently.  “I love you, John.”

John swallowed.

“I love you, too.”  He responded, hoping dearly that he would indeed see Sherlock again, alive and well.

With that, Sherlock opened the door, gave John a reassuring smile, and left.

John wasn’t certain if he would be able to handle it if Sherlock didn’t survive the confrontation with the deadly Jim Moriarty.

Until Sherlock returned, the wait would be unbearable.

 


	4. Chapter 4

For the next while, John just sat in his chair silently, staring off into space and contemplating what Sherlock was about to face.

John hoped that with everything that Sherlock knew, and all of the skills that he had honed would keep him safe.

In most cases, John would have been reasonably certain that Sherlock would pull through it all with flying colours, but up against Moriarty…

The man was an insane genius that had already devastated countless lives, not only within the U.K., but around the globe.

He’d already nearly ended Sherlock’s life, and had certainly made a massive impact on John’s.

The risk of Moriarty causing something terrible to happen once more to them was overwhelming…

Sitting there, alone in the flat with only his thoughts was not a pleasant experience, though he really was at a loss as to what to do.

Sherlock had only been gone for perhaps an hour, and John was already feeling anxious.

He would have liked to do something to help occupy his mind, but at the same time, he didn’t want to do anything at all.

He had no energy, wasn’t hungry, didn’t want to read or watch telly, and at such an early hour there was nobody that he’d feel all right about calling.

John let out a deep sigh.

He was feeling thoroughly miserable, and that since he was the one safe at home, he didn’t really have any right to feel this way.

He closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair, wanting nothing more than for Sherlock to be back home, and for it all to turn out to something other than what Sherlock was convinced it was.

 

 

Sherlock had chosen to take the train to Swansea, since it would be swifter than by car and because it had been some time since he’d ridden in one outside London.

The scenery was pleasant enough, and as he watched the fields pass by, he thought back to when he was a boy.

He’d delighted in trains as a lad, and his mother had taken him on numerous day trips to nearby towns and villages outside London simply for his childish amusement.

Afternoons spent pointing out the window at farm animals, at various foliage, up at big puffy clouds in different shapes as the train whizzed along the track to their destination.

And, Mrs. Holmes would always be certain to buy him some sort of delicious snack when they got there, before letting him lead her around town to explore, often with Redbeard in tow.

His mother really had spoiled him when he was young.  She still tried to, from time to time when she had the opportunity to do so.

Sherlock gave a petite smile as he remembered, though it stung just a bit to remember Redbeard, who had been his only childhood friend.

That dog had meant an incredible amount to him, and his loss had been awfully devastating.

With Mycroft endeavouring to use Redbeard’s death as a ‘valuable lesson’ when it came to the consequences of allowing emotion to make one vulnerable, the experience was made even harsher for Sherlock.

It was a three hour journey, and Sherlock had most of the car to himself.

Not that he minded all that much.

The solitude was somewhat refreshing.

Certainly, it was pleasant enough to have the company of someone who was on friendly terms with him, and spending time with John was usually quite enjoyable, but Sherlock had always required a certain amount of time alone.

And, right then, solitude was something that was important to him.

The last thing he would have needed was to manage the safety of anyone tagging along.

It would be demanding enough to ensure his own well-being, and possibly others nearby (considering what Moriarty could have planned or would simply do on a whim), let alone protect anyone who had come with him.

Besides that, with the lack of fellow passengers, Sherlock didn’t have to put up with anyone’s dull attempts at small talk.

Sherlock detested small talk, as it rarely went anywhere, and he had no interest whatsoever in getting to know strangers that he would hardly meet again.

Sherlock had already gone through possible conclusions of encountering Moriarty, and there were far too many variables in the situation that it would be nearly impossible to predict just what might happen.

Still, he went over things in his mind and thought some more in order to prepare himself the best he could.

There was no room for miscalculations, not even small ones.

 

 

After Jim had awoken, he’d sent Sebastian to fetch him some breakfast from downstairs.

Yawning, Sebastian headed out of the room as Jim got out of bed.

Upon arriving down at the restaurant, he considered the menu items for that morning.

He chose the oatmeal, cinnamon bun and milk combination for them both, and then chatted politely with a young female server.

It was the first day of her very first job, and she was a little tense.

“What’s your name?”  Sebastian asked kindly, as another server brought out the two trays for him to take upstairs.

“Veronica.”  She answered softly, being a shy girl.

Sebastian smiled at her, trying to put her at ease.

“Well, Veronica, you are going to make a terrific server.”  Sebastian told her assuredly.  “You seem like a smart girl, you’re polite, and I can tell you want this job.  You’ll do just fine, so don’t worry.”

Veronica didn’t look too sure about this, but thanked him.

Sebastian gave her a nod, before beginning to turn away, trays in hand.

“Seriously, love, you’ve got this.”  He added, making her feel a little better.

 

Upstairs, Jim didn’t seem overly satisfied with his morning meal, though he quietly ate it.

Sebastian took his cue from Jim and remained silent, looking at the oatmeal in revulsion as he tore a piece of cinnamon bun off and popped it into his mouth.

Sebastian had always hated oatmeal, but he’d rather have eaten the oatmeal than the wretched looking fruit salad that had been the other option, or to have gone hungry.

“Big day today.”  Jim stated without looking up from his breakfast, alluding to Sherlock’s arrival.

“How do you know he’ll show up today, if at all?”  Sebastian asked curiously, not doubting Jim.

Jim swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm oatmeal.  “Because my timing is impeccable, as always, and Sherlock won’t be able to resist the invitation.”  He answered confidently.

Sebastian nodded, taking another bite of his cinnamon bun.

He still hadn’t been told what Jim had in mind for today’s events, and would have liked at least some inkling of what his role was to be.

Jim had often relied on him to complete various tasks, often hits, and Sebastian liked to know exactly what he was required to do beforehand.

The problem was that while Jim often premeditated, there were enough instances where Jim had simply done as he pleased in the moment, leaving Sebastian to improvise should the need arise.

Not that it bothered Jim at all, but Sebastian much preferred to know things inside and out as much as possible.

Certainly, there would inevitably be points that couldn’t be foreseen, but knowing as much as possible beforehand assisted in finding ways out if things went bad.

While he’d been in Jim’s employ, such situations were few and far in between, and easy enough to get out of.

Jim knew what he was doing, even on the fly, and he did it exceptionally well.

“There’s a warehouse 4.3 miles away from this point of the city, completely abandoned in a large, empty lot.  That is where we will be in two and a half hours from now, after Sherlock has been given the paper I will leave with the staff reception.”  Jim told him, seeing the want for information written on Sebastian’s face and obliging him.

Sebastian waited for Jim to continue, listening closely.

“You will be situated on the upper level, and your job is to act as you did at Bristol South Swimming Pool.”  Jim went on, referring to a previous encounter with Sherlock.

Sebastian recalled the situation easily, his memory being quite sharp.

If it hadn’t been for that phone call back then, he and Jim wouldn’t be here now.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes would both be dead, and there wouldn’t have been any more problems.

Instead, Holmes had ended up causing quite a mass of aggravation for Jim, hurling many of his operations into jeopardy and disassembling others permanently.

Jim should have permitted him to shoot the two men then and there, instead of letting them go.

But, it wasn’t Sebastian’s place to question, but to follow orders.

“When and if I give the order, you will kill him.”  Jim stated firmly, wanting to be sure that he was entirely clear on this point.  “Otherwise, I will have that gratification for myself.”

Sebastian had long wondered what it was that had initiated such hate between Jim and Sherlock, but not having the nerve to ask.

Not that it really mattered; whatever the reason was, it wouldn’t change the outcome of things.

 

 

Sherlock checked his watch an hour and twenty minutes into the trip.

He was beginning to feel his heart pound, and the light-headedness gently seep in.

Sherlock started to implement his breathing techniques, though they never seemed to help that much.

He swallowed hard, as he began feeling as though he would die.

This time, the symptoms were far more intense, and it was anguish.

Sherlock looked out the window, concentrating on the various shades of colour flashing by in an effort to keep from thinking about his predicament.

Not surprisingly, that didn’t work very well.

Sherlock’s thoughts turned to ones of John, who would have done everything he could to help him through this.

And with this, he began to feel that horrifying sense of loneliness that touched the core of his being and gripped it tightly, choking him.

Sherlock hadn’t had such a severe attack since he was a child, and he really did not know how to manage it.

It didn’t help knowing that the unbearable sensations would be over soon, because each second felt like an eternity.

Besides one ancient man looking back strangely as Sherlock drew in ragged breaths before turning away, none of the three other passengers could care less at what might be happening.

Sherlock felt a wet tear slip down his cheek, feeling incredibly vulnerable.

He found himself panicking about lapsing into an attack while in the company of Moriarty.

If that happened, he had no chance of surviving.

Sherlock spiralled deeper and deeper, until finally, the feelings began to disappear.

And, before long, they were gone.

Sherlock wiped the sweat from his face, feeling very tired and thirsty.

He took a water bottle from his suitcase, taking a drink from it, nearly emptying it completely.

He leaned back loosely against his seat, closing his eyes.

Sherlock drifted into a state of half-sleep as the train drew steadily closer to Swansea.

 

 

John didn’t budge from his spot in the chair until his stomach began to grumble loudly.

He would have rather stayed in that spot all day, not moving or doing anything but steeping in his miserableness.

But, he knew better than to permit himself to wallow.  That would not lead to anything positive.

And so, he got up and ate a light breakfast of sausage, cheese, and bread with tea.

It was nearly 8:00 am, now, and he thought about texting Greg.

Today was one of his days off, though, and John didn’t want to wake him.

John knew that Greg worked long days, and that even on his days off he often got called onto the job.

Sleeping in was a luxury for him, and John didn’t want to disrupt Greg.

John didn’t want to see or talk to Mary then.

He was having a difficult enough time without the emotions that Mary and Michael stirred up within him.

John would just have to wait until later and make the call to Greg then.

Over the years, Greg had become a good friend to him, and was a pretty empathetic bloke.

And, that was exactly what John needed then.

 

 

Upon arriving in Swansea, Sherlock grabbed his suitcase and headed off the railcar.

It made sense that he ought to head to the Slithering Serpent pub, though he knew the chances of a true confrontation there were slim.

An ambush there would be completely illogical.

The people in the vicinity would put any possible plans at risk, not to mention that if anything out of the ordinary occurred that it wouldn’t take local police to arrive on the scene.

No, it was far more likely that there was a location nearby that would be used for such purposes.

And, Sherlock didn’t have a doubt in his mind that if anyone walked away from this, that it would only be one of them.

Though, with Moriarty, it was entirely possible that he would be willing to commit suicide in order to put an end to Sherlock.

Of course, with the ruse that Moriarty had set up previously, it was impossible to know what could be going through his mind.

Sherlock had brought along three separate GPS chips, complete with live feed audio recording devices.

The information from which was sent directly to Mycroft, who was in the know about the entire situation.

Mycroft had trusted personnel located in and around Swansea should back-up be required, and he’d insisted that Sherlock take the devices with him as a precaution.

With the recent threats against the country that Moriarty had been making (which had been kept quiet even from Sherlock), coupled with the threat against his younger brother, Mycroft wanted very much to have the criminal taken care of.

One chip was embedded in the side of the sole of his left shoe.  Another was secreted within his dark curls, while the last one was in his breast jacket pocket.

Sherlock had also taken along an M&P compact, a small but remarkably powerful handgun.

To be on the safe side, he was wearing an imperceptible bulletproof vest beneath his fine suit.

He was taking no unnecessary risks.  He had too much to live for.

 

 

Sherlock had taken a cab to the pub, finding himself promptly stopped by one of the staff members shortly after stepping inside.

“Your mate left a letter for you at the desk, let me get it for you.”  The dumpy, ginger haired man said boisterously, dashing away to retrieve the item.

Sherlock waited, and it was only a few moments before the man rushed back.

It was easy to see that the man was an energy drink addict, by his behaviour and his pupils.

Coffee instigated similar responses in humans, however distinctly different enough to see a variance in behaviour.

“Here ya go!”  He said enthusiastically, passing a yellow envelope to Sherlock, looking up at him contemplatively.

“Your cheekbones are even sharper in person…  That photo he left doesn’t quite do you justice…”  He said thoughtfully.  “You know, I mean, I’m not gay or anything…  But, man….”  The man said awkwardly, before giving a slight shrug and sprinting off after being called by a fellow employee.

Sherlock felt the contents of the envelope, which seemed to be merely paper.

He tore off the side of the envelope, sliding the paper out and unfolding it.

There were no words on the paper whatsoever, simply a printout of a photo that pictured a great, ugly warehouse situated within a largely vacant lot.

He flipped the paper over, looking for any other sort of message.

Unsurprisingly, there was nothing.

Sherlock asked a passing server whether she knew where the building was.

“Er, yeah…  It’s not too far from here.”  She told him shyly, finding it challenging to meet his sharp blue eyes.  “Take a left outside the door for the next four blocks, then another left from there.  Just keep walking, and you can’t miss it.” 

Sherlock thanked her, before leaving the establishment and following the directions he’d been given.


	5. Chapter 5

 

As he walked, Sherlock pressed 3 on his mobile, speed-dialling John.

He’d promised to let John know when he’d gotten into town, and this was a good time for that.

John answered on the second ring, and Sherlock smiled just a touch at hearing John’s voice as he greeted him.

The thought that this might be the last time he and John would speak crept into his mind, though he tried to chase it away.

“Hello, John…”  He began, slowing his pace as he spoke.  “Yes, the trip went well.”

There was no way he was going to tell John about the attack, there was no need to make him fret even more.

“Do you have an idea of what’s going on yet?”  John asked hopefully.

With any luck, Sherlock would figure it all out swiftly and put an end to it easier than predicted.

Sherlock brushed a stray curl back, tucking it behind his left ear.  He had let his hair grow out a bit, and it was beginning to annoy him.

“No, not yet.”  He answered truthfully.  “I’m on my way to an abandoned warehouse where I shall likely find out.”

There was silence on John’s end.

“John?”  Sherlock asked, wondering if he ought to have mentioned it.

“I’m here…”  John replied, his voice softer than before as he tapped his fingers nervously against the soft arm of his chair.  “It’s just…  I know you’re clever and all, and that you’ll probably be fine…”

“Except that I might not be this time.”  Sherlock stated bluntly, swallowing hard.  “I know, John.  And, I’m sorry to put you through this.”

John blinked.

“No, don’t be sorry.  This isn’t your fault.”  He told Sherlock, his voice a little thick with emotion.  “And, you are going to come home when this is all said and done.”

As Sherlock took his second left, he could see the warehouse in the distance and he stopped.

“And when I do, I’ll make an honest man out of you.”  Sherlock told him earnestly.  “If you’d like.”

John made a small noise, completely taken by surprise at the sudden marriage proposal.

“Did you seriously just propose to me over the phone when you’re about to go into a possible life or death situation?”  John asked incredulously, stilling his fingers.

Sherlock smiled.

“Yes, I believe I did.”  He answered, focusing only on he and John for a few moments.

John grinned.  “I like that…”  He stated thoughtfully.  “And, I’ll hold you to your words, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.  “I hope so.”  He told John, before letting himself come back to the reality before him.

He opened his eyes, glancing back to the warehouse. 

“I’ve got to go, John.”  He announced regretfully.  “I’ll call you again when I can.”

John bit his lip.

“I understand.”  He said, his stomach tightening.  “You just take care of yourself.  Don’t go taking any unnecessary risks.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”  He assured John warmly.  “I love you, John.”

“I love you, too, Sherlock.”  John said in return, before the call was ended and he felt the pit in his stomach intensify.

 

 

It wasn’t long after that call, that John’s mobile rang again.

He read the display, seeing that it was Greg Lestrade.

“Hey, Greg.”  He answered, trying not to sound as wholly miserable as he felt.

“How are you holding up?”  Greg asked with a touch of concern.

He knew how close John and Sherlock were, and with what was going on, that he’d need someone to help him through it.

He’d helped John through when Sherlock had been ‘dead’, and would be there for him now.

John gave a small forced laugh.  “I’ve been better, but I’m holding up.”  He answered, leaning onto his knees.

Greg frowned.  “You want me to swing by?”  He asked kindly.  “I can bring over some lager, and I did a bit of baking last night…  I’ve got an apple betty if you like that sort of thing.”

John began to feel just the tiniest bit better at this.

Greg was always such a great pal.

“Well, as long as it wouldn’t be any trouble…”  John said, not wanting to ruin Greg’s day off with his problems.

“Hey, it’s not a problem, mate.  Anyway, it’s been a while since we last hung out.”  Greg told him genuinely.  “So, when should head over?”

John looked about the flat.  It was tidy enough, he supposed.

“Any time.”  He answered, wondering if the distraction would help at all.

 

 

 

It was only a matter of minutes before Sherlock had reached the gates of the lot with the warehouse sitting hideously on it.

The building, while seemingly stable enough, was certainly in the process of dilapidation and whatever aesthetics might have been applied to it had long faded away.

The gates were locked, though he found it simple enough to pick his way through the security feature.

He could see no sign of anyone in or around the building, though he expected to run into someone quite soon.

When he wanted to be seen, Moriarty preferred to be the only one in the spotlight.

In other words, he preferred to keep any underlings he brought with them hidden away, ready to strike from the shadows.

And, this early on, it wasn’t apparent where those inferiors may be located.

He would have to be on his best game, keep his eyes open to every possible detail available to him.

Sherlock headed straight for the warehouse, searching for anything unusual.

There was nothing of the like as he approached the closest metal door to him, trying the doorknob.

It was unlocked.

He didn’t swing the door open, rather he listened closely as he slowly opened the door.

The inside was cold and dark.

Sherlock felt around the wall for a light switch, but when he did find one, it was not functional.

He took a torch out of his case, turning it on and taking a look around at his surroundings.

The main area contained only a few dusty machines and some decaying cardboard boxes.

There was a second floor, which contained a number of offices and a storage area.

It was impossible to see what was up there from ground level.

If Moriarty was indeed there, he knew of Sherlock’s presence.  There was no doubt about that whatsoever.

Sherlock had considered the possibility of some sort of explosives being rigged, though it was hardly likely that Moriarty would do anything at all without a confrontation.

That was his style, and Sherlock was convinced that there would be no deviation from it in this instance.

Sherlock heard a small shuffle from above him, and knew that he wasn’t alone.

He also knew that it was not Jim Moriarty.

No, the person who had made that sound was a good foot taller, and much heavier.

Sherlock made no moves that would give away what he knew.

It wouldn’t be a smart move to go anywhere near the upstairs.

The torch he had would not lend enough illumination to properly see what was there, and he had no way of knowing if there was more than one individual up there.

He would simply have to wait for the main man to arrive on the scene.

 

 

A half hour later, Greg rang the bell, apple betty and a 12 pack of lager in hand.

John greeted him and they went into the den, setting the dessert on the coffee table and putting the warm cans into the fridge to cool.

“Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”  John asked politely, looking a bit pale and very tired.

Greg shook his head.  “No, I’m all right, thanks.”  He answered, sitting down.

John nodded, sitting down as well.

Greg wanted to ask if John had heard from Sherlock yet, wanting to hear some good news.

It had been a rough month so far.

His wife had decided to suddenly announce that she was seeing someone and wanted a divorce before leaving the flat that they shared and taking their two children with her, the case that he’d been working so hard to close had been solved by one of the DI’s that he disliked the most, he’d had to put down his beloved Labrador dog last week, and now one of his best friends was in trouble.

But, this wasn’t about him, it was about John.

“Sherlock called not long before you did earlier.”  John began, crossing his legs.

“Oh?”  Greg asked.  “What did he say?”

John told him what Sherlock had said about the warehouse.

Greg looked serious.

“He’ll be okay, you know.”  He said earnestly.  “I mean, it’s Sherlock after all.”

John gave a weak smile.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”  He agreed half-heartedly.

Greg lightly punched John’s shoulder.  “I know I am.”  He told John, trying to cheer him some.

“Have you had breakfast yet?”  Greg inquired, and John nodded.

“I had a little bit of something earlier.”  John answered, leaning back into his chair.

Greg looked a bit skeptical. He knew John well, and that he wasn't one to eat properly when he was truly stressed.

“You look like you could use a snack.”  He told him, bringing a couple of plates, two forks, and a serving spoon in.

He proceeded to dish them each up a serving of the large apple betty that he’d made the night before in order to busy himself.

John couldn’t say no.

Greg was trying his best to help out, after all.

“Thanks.”  He said, taking the plate.

It really did look very good.

John tasted it.

“This is even better than it looks.”  John complimented him.

“Cheers.”  Greg told him.  “It’s my own recipe.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“So, you cook a fair bit, then?”  He asked, not having known about Greg’s culinary skills.

Greg laughed.

“I very nearly became a chef, rather than become a DI.”  He admitted.  “If my father hadn’t swayed me, I wouldn’t be where I am now.”

John took another bite of apple betty, chewing thoughtfully.

“You would have made a great chef if you had gone down that road.”  He said after swallowing.

“Now you’re just flattering me.”  Greg said, the tips of his ears going red as he blushed.

He hadn’t told anyone about his nearly becoming a chef in decades, and he still felt just a small amount of bitterness in not having tried to become one.

As a kid, he’d wanted very much to work in a kitchen, but his father had always looked down on him for that, calling him a ‘faggot’ for it.

Even after choosing another career that might have made his father proud, they still didn’t have a good relationship.

He and John spoke about this and that, and each was happy for the distraction.

 

 

Sherlock had waited for nearly twenty minutes before he heard resounding footsteps coming from the head of the stairwell.

He watched as Moriarty descended the metal stairs, his cold brown eyes glinting in the near darkness.

Moriarty walked up to him, staring deep into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Look at you, back from the dead.”  He said tonelessly.

“I could say the same about you.”  Sherlock returned, and Moriarty laughed.

“Fair enough.”  He agreed.  “Though this time, you won’t be playing dead, Sherlock.”

Moriarty cleared hi throat.

“The game ends today.”  He said menacingly, taking another step closer.

“I’ve let you have your fun, with your sad little attempts to destroy my operations.  But enough is enough.  Play time is over.”  He went on, putting his hands in his jacket pockets.

Sherlock took what little information he could from the scene unfolding before him.

“But, before I do kill you, I really ought to thank you for slaughtering my brother all those years ago.”  Moriarty added.  “Saved me the trouble of doing it myself.”

Sherlock hadn’t entirely expected this.

“Oh, did you really think that I had a vendetta with you over that?”  Moriarty asked in amusement.

“Then what is it about me that you detest so much?”  Sherlock inquired curiously.  “It isn’t simply because we are on opposite sides, I know that.  And, it isn’t because I took your brother from you.  So, what is it?”

Moriarty shrugged.

“You’re fun to play with, Sherlock.”  Moriarty answered with a shrug.  “Well, you used to be.  You bore me now.”

Sherlock wondered how far things would escalate before Mycroft’s ‘back-up’ force would decide to intervene.

He might be able to take care of this himself, and unless things advanced to an uncontrollable level, Sherlock would rather be left to his own devices.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Back in London, Mycroft himself was monitoring the situation between Sherlock and Moriarty, listening to every word.

Finally having accurately pinpointed where the notorious criminal was at last was highly satisfactory.

Mycroft had never for one instant supposed Moriarty to be dead.

After all, there had been no corpse left on the rooftop of St. Bart’s that day that he had assisted in Sherlock’s disappearance.

In fact, there had been no trace of any blood or brain matter, or anything at all unusual.

It was clear that someone had done some cleaning up; things had been far too sterile for what Sherlock had described.

Mycroft had no reason to believe that Moriarty would commit suicide just like that.  It was too cut and dry, too simple.

Considering all the facts, there was no motive for such an act.

Therefore it hadn’t been altogether remarkable to Mycroft when he’d become aware of Moriarty’s continued existence.

He had done quite an admirable job in keeping off the radar entirely.  Not the tiniest hint of his whereabouts or anything in regards to Moriarty, had been found after his disappearing act.

It would have been preferable to have simply sent in his men to take charge of Moriarty; however he knew that should anything out of the ordinary occur, that there was a distinct possibility that Moriarty would vanish again.

And that risk, however large or small it may have been, was not one that he wished to take.

Moriarty was expecting Sherlock to come to him; that’s just what he would receive.

And, once there was an optimal moment, Mycroft would order his employees to strike.

He had no issues when it came to subtly and swiftly ending the villain’s life and protecting the lives of countless possible victims.

However, he wanted to confront the man first.

To see what he might glean from him.

Last they spoke, under vaguely similar circumstances, Moriarty hadn’t provided as much information as he would have liked.

Mycroft didn’t expect a great deal more on this occasion, though he might be able to persuade Moriarty to express himself a touch more as opposed to last time.

 

 

Back in 221 B Baker Street, John had somehow gotten Greg to talk about what had been perturbing him so much the past while.

Greg tended to keep all of his difficulties to himself, finding it tough to talk about such private things.

This had been one of the issues that his soon-to-be ex-wife had brought up several times in the past.

It always had been a bit of a challenge for Greg to communicate well when it came to something personal.

He was a terrific listener on the other hand.

But, the thing was that he was hard to really get to know since he never shared very much.

It hadn’t been easy, but John had finally managed to get Greg to open up, and everything just came out in the open.

He had only meant to touch on one or two things, the ones that had really hit him hard, but once he began to talk it was strangely difficult to stop.

Once he had gotten the last thing off of his chest, John just blinked in stunned silence.

“Wow…  I had no idea.”  He said honestly, feeling bad for Greg.  “That’s rough.”

Greg nodded.  “Yeah.  I mean, I can handle it, it’s just all a bit much right now.”  He admitted, looking embarrassed.

Everything had really snowballed and it wasn’t easy to keep from letting it overwhelm him.

John gave him a sympathetic look and moved closer.

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do, is there?”  John asked, wanting to be able to help his friend.

Greg shook his head.  “Nah, I think you just did all you can.  It’s good to sort of have it all out in the open.”  He replied, giving a small smile.

“Well, you know I’m here if you ever need anything.”  John reminded him.  “And, I’m always willing to _listen._  You don’t have to deal with everything on your own, mate.”

Greg would have liked to be able to feel free to take John up on this offer, though he knew that sharing like this was probably not something that would happen again anytime soon.

He was already feeling guilty for admitting to his burden, especially with what John was going through.

“Right.”  He told John a bit tonelessly.  “Sounds good.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“I mean it.”  He said firmly.  “That’s what friends are for.”

Greg was touched by how much this seemed to mean to John.

“Yes, all right, I’ll think about it.” Greg told him honestly. 

“Good.”  John said stubbornly.  “Now, how about a lager?”

 

 

Moriarty stepped out of Sherlock’s personal space, allowing him some room to breathe.

“Maybe it’s not such a shame that Mary was too soft-hearted to go through with my original plan…  Would’ve made things a bit simpler, but at least now _I_ get to be the one to watch as the life slowly fades from your body.  More fun this way.”  Moriarty said suddenly, in a thoughtful sort of tone, as he took a knife out of a sheath that was securely attached to his black leather belt.

He toyed with it as he went on.

“Hard to believe she actually fell for your daft little doctor.  I’ll admit that was a touch unexpected.  I had expected more from my sister than that.”  Moriarty stated with a hint of disgust.

Sherlock had entirely missed the connection between Mary and Moriarty, and it showed on his face.

Moriarty watched the glint of light play along the incredibly sharp blade, before looking over to Sherlock.

“It was nice of you to help keep Magnussen away from her.  Although, it was disappointing to hear that you had slaughtered him before I was able to make use of him.”  Moriarty said, before signalling someone from upstairs.

A tall, bulky man cumbersomely stalked down the stairs, carrying something in one hand.

He set the item down beside Moriarty, before walking over to Sherlock, who prepared himself for combat.

With a decent amount of struggle, before Sherlock felt a stinging in his arm and his muscles go thoroughly limp, Sebastian shackled Sherlock to a concrete support.

His wrists were bound at the back of the cold support by handcuffs that had been slightly sharpened on the inside.

Moriarty smiled coldly, watching Sherlock, taking in how vulnerable he was now.

“Let’s take this slowly.”  He fairly purred, as Sebastian began to head back to his original post.

Before he did, he looked into Sherlock’s eyes for a moment.

Under different circumstances he would have liked to have gotten to know the consulting detective.

After all, he was clever, good-looking, and he had an attitude.

Sebastian found those qualities in anyone irresistibly attractive.

 

The brief amount of time that Moran had been in ground level had spoken volumes.

It was apparent to Sherlock exactly who he was to Moriarty, and vice versa.

That might be useful later on, depending on what occurred.

 

Moriarty leisurely made his way in close, his first course of action being to cut the buttons off of Sherlock’s shirt, revealing his toned torso.

After running a finger down Sherlock’s chest, he brought the knife against his skin, pressing down but keeping it still.

Moriarty’s breathing grew just a bit heavier, as he began to move the knife at a snail’s pace, not cutting very deeply, but enough to draw blood.

He watched attentively as the dark crimson liquid made its way down the alabaster skin, collected by the dark grey trousers that Sherlock wore.

Sherlock remained composed, though he could feel his heart thumping harder.

He merely breathed in and out, keeping calm and collected.

There was little else he could do.

Moriarty removed the knife, before pulling Sherlock’s trousers and pants down, and pressing it against the delicate skin on his right side.

Sherlock focused on keeping his heart rate and his breathing under control.

It was incredibly trying, but Sherlock did manage to fight off the threatening panic attack.

Moriarty made four quick incisions into the skin, evoking a small noise of pain from Sherlock.

A satisfied look came over Moriarty’s ghostly pale face, as he leaned in and tasted the blood that had begun to drip steadily onto the floor.

Sherlock was powerless to do anything.

All he could do was watch as Moriarty did as he would, and hope that back-up was nearby.

It was evident that Moriarty desired to torture him as much as was possible, until Sherlock’s body simply gave up.

Moriarty moved away, wiping the knife and putting it back in its holder, before opening the sizable case that Moran had brought with him.

He brought out a whip, giving the air a test lash, his eyes sparkling in content at the piercing ‘crack’ that the action created.

Sherlock swallowed.

 “I’ve always wanted to try this.”   He heard Moriarty state gently, before feeling the whip lacerate his skin with force.

Sherlock let out a strangled grunt as burning pain travelled along his chest, spreading throughout his body.

This was a sort of pain that he had never experienced, and it was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

A second lashing was soon followed by a third, a fourth, and a fifth, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock’s arms, legs, and torso were gashed and bloody.

Moriarty beat him without the vaguest hint of mercy, each lash notably stronger than the last

Sherlock panted shallowly as he struggled to maintain consciousness.

“Not as tough as you’d like to pretend, are you now?”  Moriarty asked in a singsong tone, tossing the whip on the floor and walking around Sherlock, surveying the damage he’d inflicted.

Sherlock was in complete agony, his blood streaming down his damaged skin.

His entire body was wracked with throbbing pain that seemed to intensify by the second, and even the tiniest breath doubled the anguish.

Just as Moriarty had gone into the case to bring out another one of his toys, Sherlock heard a loud crash as daylight streamed in from the back door.

Several armed men swiftly entered the premises, two of them heading directly for Moriarty and swiftly cuffing and carting him away.

More men from the same company emerged from the upstairs, bringing Sebastian Moran and three other hoodlums with them.

As this was happening, Sherlock was being unlocked from the cement pillar.

A stretcher was brought in, and he was placed on it carefully.

Sherlock was in a daze and going into shock as he was taken into a helicopter where medical personnel began working on him as he fell deeply into unconciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

After the entire situation was under full control, Mycroft had given John a quick call to inform him that it was over and that Sherlock had been injured and would be arriving at Wellington Hospital within the next half hour.

If it hadn’t been for the woman he’d put in charge of the group responsible for keeping Sherlock secure and retrieving Moriarty having a sudden stroke, his little brother wouldn’t be in such a critical state now.

The bleeding from Sherlock’s wounds was just as bad as it looked; both the brachial artery and subclavian vein had been damaged, and the blood loss was profuse enough to merit genuine concern when it came to his survival.

Considering that Sherlock was in the care of exceptionally talented medical practitioners, Mycroft felt confident enough to have him flown into London rather than admitted to a hospital in Wales.

Mycroft knew that Sherlock was currently receiving the best immediate medical care available.  Still, he was worried.

He may not have shown it, but Sherlock meant quite a lot to him.

Mycroft, in his own way, had done his best to be a worthy elder brother and had always tried to take care of him.

Perhaps there wasn’t the same sort variety bond that there would be between most brothers, though there was most certainly something strong between them when it came to the heart of the matter.

And, Mycroft  thought of his younger brother lying bloody and unconscious, and knew that if he had constructed a better plan that there wouldn’t have been such suffering.

 

 

After quietly putting his mobile away, looking extremely solemn, John got to his feet a little unsteadily.

Greg’s eyebrows knit together in concern , watching John carefully.

“It’s Sherlock…”  John said quietly, his voice breaking as he said the name.  “He’s been pretty badly injured…”

Greg stood up.  “Where’s he being taken?”  He asked, knowing that while he was BAC was over the legal limit to drive, that Mrs. Hudson was at home and would be more than willing to chauffer them.

John cleared his throat, feeling a touch lightheaded as things really sunk in.  “Uh, Wellington.  He’s not there yet, but he will be soon.”  He answered thickly.

“All right, I’ve got the car out front.  I’ll just ask Mrs. Hudson to take us over, if you want to meet us there.”  Greg told him, putting his shoes on.

John nodded.  “Yeah… Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”  He mumbled, slipping his own shoes on and heading to the door after getting his keys.

He exited the flat after Greg, and locked up.

 

 

Sherlock arrived at the hospital twenty-one minutes later, two of his wounds being held firmly as he was speedily rolled into surgery.

The brachial artery was nearly severed, and while a few of his sizable gashes had already been stitched and bandaged, more of them had not been.

 

When John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson had reached the correct area of the hospital, they found Mycroft already there.

John was mildly surprised, but he said nothing about it.

Mycroft had arranged for a private waiting room, which was really quite comfortable.

“Sherlock’s condition isn’t stable quite yet; it’s too early to tell whether or not he’ll pull through.”  Mycroft stated bluntly, thinking that there was no logic in delaying telling them the facts as they were.  “There has been a significant amount of blood loss, and it would seem that a certain toxin was introduced into his system.  Atropa belladonna, or ‘deadly nightshade’ as it is better known, which has added to the damage considerably.”

John’s breath caught in his throat, Greg stood there at his side looking intense.

Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth, looking panicked.

Mycroft gestured to a soft calf-skin couch.  “You may as well sit down.  There’s no point in just standing there.”  He told them, toying with the handle of his umbrella.

They each sat, looking uncomfortable.

After making sure John was all right, Greg excused himself and went out for a quick cigarette.

He’d been trying to quit, though every time something stressful came up he found himself going back to his old habit of lighting up.

 

Greg left the building, slipped a cigarette out of the packet and placed it in his mouth.

He lit it with a match, and drew on it deeply.

He began walking about the designated smoking area, puffing away.

His mind was heavy, and he needed a way to lighten it.

He just didn’t know how.

And so, he tried not to think about things too much, as he finished his cigarette.

On the way back inside, he changed his mind and lit another one.

Greg had cut down considerably, and it had been weeks since he’d had more than one cigarette in such a short time span, but he was craving the tobacco badly.

Worrying about Sherlock on top of everything else had tipped the scales a bit.

He was dealing with too much.

 

 

The surgical team did a great job of patching Sherlock up, though it was still tough to tell whether or not his condition would improve or falter.

The poison, which had made its way into Sherlock’s body when Moriarty had used the whip on him, had caused convulsions and severe tachycardia.

Sherlock had been quite near to having a full blown heart attack when he’d reached Wellington hospital.

Of course, an antidote had been quickly administered, though the effects would linger for a while.

Cardiac arrest, or even complete heart failure, was a very real threat.

 

 

Once Sherlock was out of the OR and in a room in the ICU, a nurse had come in to inform them.

They wouldn’t be permitted to see him until he was in stable condition, though none of them intended to leave.

And, since Mycroft was a typically busy and extremely important man to the government, that meant that he would have to do some of his job from there.

He had his laptop with him, and after the nurse had given them the update and left, he brought it out of its case and turned it on.

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow, giving him a mild look of disapproval, which he’d entirely ignored.

She didn’t feel it was right to go on with such things in a situation like this.

Meanwhile, John sat staring at the floor in complete silence, very deep in thought.

Greg had tried to engage him in conversation, to sway his mind from things for just a little while, but it had been useless.

John had simply shut down, and nothing short of news about Sherlock would shake him from it.

 

 

Jim Moriarty had been moved to a highly secure location where he was being held in a small, windowless room.

A closed circuit camera followed him whenever he moved, protected behind a thick layer of Plexiglas.

He’d been stripped down and dressed in a simple white t-shirt and beige trousers without any pockets, and though he’d lightly inquired about his men, he’d been told nothing.

Sebastian Moran, and the other three henchmen, were also being held at the same location and had been given the same treatment.

None of them knew that the others were there, or what was to happen to them.

The only one out of them that knew anything relatively important was Sebastian.

This was easily enough found out, and the other three were moved to separate facility to be dealt with by another branch entirely.

Sebastian, however, was potentially useful.  He would stay, and they would do what it took to get information from him.

But, until orders came from Mycroft, nobody was to go near either Moriarty or Moran unless some sort of emergency dictated otherwise.


	8. Chapter 8

 

Over the next few days, it had been touch and go with Sherlock; though in the late afternoon of the sixth day in hospital he awoke at last.

John hadn’t left the hospital, occasionally wandering to where he knew Sherlock was, despite not being permitted access.

Greg had stayed with John as long as he could, and had stopped by after work each day to check in on how things were.

Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had both left on the first day; Mycroft due to work, and Mrs. Hudson as she simply couldn’t handle being there any longer.

It had been rough and he’d been sick to his stomach with worry, especially after Sherlock’s heart had begun to fail and he’d ended up having a pacemaker put in, but John had refused to leave the hospital.

He just couldn’t bring himself to go.

When he’d received the good news that Sherlock was conscious at last, John heaved a weighty sigh of relief.

He’d told everyone as soon as he’d found out, and even Mycroft had a hint of happiness in his voice after hearing the news.

John had been informed by the doctors that there was a fair chance that Sherlock wouldn’t make it, and John had struggled not to think about that too much; to do his best to keep hope alive.

Of course, John wasn’t yet able to see Sherlock, but to know that he was alert buoyed his spirits quite a lot.

 

 

Sebastian Moran had remained silent, refusing speak at all.

He’d been questioned by a couple of Mycroft’s underlings, though he hadn’t seemed to care about what they had to say.

Sebastian was convinced that Jim would get them out of this, that none of this mattered because he would be free of it soon enough.

He’d not heard anything of Jim since they had been taken forcefully from the warehouse in Wales, yet Sebastian felt relatively certain that he was close by.

As he lay on a bed that was too small for him, his feet hanging over the end of the thin mattress uncomfortably as he lay flat on his back, he heard someone open the thick metal door.

He didn’t bother to look over, closing his eyes instead as he ignored whomever might wander into his small white room.

“Sebastian Moran.”  A smooth voice laced with confidence and danger began.  “I don’t think you realise what sort of situation you have found yourself to be in.”

Sebastian snorted, putting his arm over his eyes.

This man didn’t know much about what Moriarty was capable of if he was saying that; the situation he was in meant nothing.  It would be over soon enough, and he and Jim would be back to work in no time.

“Sit up.”  The voice commanded in a level tone.

Sebastian didn’t move.

A few moments later, he heard the man exit the room, and someone else enter it.

He was pulled upright into a standing position and was taken in handcuffs to another room.

Sebastian was sat down on a cheap plastic chair and his handcuffs were locked to a chain attached to the cement floor.

In front of him sat the elder Holmes brother, composed and watching him closely.

Sebastian stared into his cold blue eyes, trying to unnerve him and failing miserably.

Mycroft refrained from speaking for a few moments as he read Moran like an open novel.

“You are willing to do whatever it takes to protect James Moriarty to the best of your abilities.  I do hope that you realise that he would not do the same for you.”  Mycroft told him honestly. 

Sebastian sneered.

“What the hell would you know about it, you smarmy bastard?”  Sebastian growled, feeling his temper begin to rise.

There was something about this guy that he just didn’t like at all.

Mycroft gave a tired blink.

“Everything.”  He answered meaningfully, giving him a brief summary and watching as the dull look of surprise took over Moran’s face as it turned crimson.

Sebastian had no idea who this person was, but he wanted to shut him up.

“Moriarty does not care about you, Sebastian.  He is incapable of such a thing.”  Mycroft continued.  “And, you know this as well as I.”

Sebastian’s nostrils flared as anger welled up inside him.

He did know this.

He never had truly admitted it to himself, but, on a certain level, he was aware that Jim would never feel anything for him.

Sebastian knew that Jim wasn’t the same as he was; that he was a psychopath and a very dangerous one.

But, he hadn’t cared.  He loved Jim, and that wasn’t something that he could help.

And, that love was why he stayed.  Why he would always stay.

“Go to hell.”  Sebastian spat, practically seething as the truth was spoken aloud.

Mycroft’s face remained blank.  “Even if he did care, even if he did want to free you from this place, he would not be able to.”  He said, ignoring the profanity hurled in his direction.  “Now that he is in my custody, he will remain so for the rest of his life; however long that may be.  And, unless you would choose the same fate for yourself, I would consider cooperating.”

Sebastian was easy enough to read with one exception; when it came to anything of import, he would shut down completely and become a blank slate.

Mycroft had only run across a few people who shared this same ability, and it was rather annoying.

He could tell that Sebastian was thinking over what had been said, though he still didn’t seem altogether convinced.

“You haven’t yet experienced actual interrogation since you’ve arrived.  If I were in your place, I would strive to keep it that way.”  Mycroft strongly advised him.

Despite knowing all that he did, Sebastian still felt confident that Jim would indeed take them away from this place once he was able.

If nothing else, Sebastian knew that he was useful to Jim, and that meant something, didn’t it?

 

 

That evening, John was told that he could visit Sherlock, but only briefly.

As he entered Sherlock’s room, John gave a small gasp upon seeing the condition of the man he loved.

Sherlock was shirtless and covered in bandages, various tubes ran in and out of his body, and his breathing was assisted.

John carefully walked over to the bed, though Sherlock barely seemed to notice.

“He’s on some pretty heavy-duty pain medication, dear.”  The nurse told him softly, before leaving them alone.

John had never seen Sherlock like this before, so badly damaged, and it made his heart ache terribly.

Sherlock’s eyes focused a bit as he turned his head to peer up at John.

“You were right.”  He mumbled quietly, giving a tiny smile.

John frowned.  “What do you mean?”  He asked, listening closely.

Sherlock blinked slowly, as though it were difficult to manage doing.

“I came home.”  Sherlock answered, weaker than before.

John could see that Sherlock was struggling to stay awake to see him.

He leaned in, kissing his forehead.

“Thank goodness for that.”  John replied softly, smiling down at him.

Sherlock looked as though he wanted to say something, but couldn’t manage it.

“It’s okay, just rest for now.”  John murmered, feeling a lump form in his throat.  “We can talk later, when you’re feeling better.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, exhausted.

John stayed for a few more minutes, just watching Sherlock breathe, thankful that this marvellous man was still alive, and hoping for continued improvement.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

That night, Moriarty had been ruthlessly interrogated by a small panel of elite government agents, Mycroft included.

It had gone on until nearly dawn the next morning, and despite their efforts, Moriarty had released minimal details.

Since they had nothing to offer Moriarty in return, the only thing that could be done was to find a way to ease the information from him.

Still, he was a very difficult man to break, and it was likely enough that they would receive nothing at all for their attempts.

Mycroft was in possession of a great amount of detail when it came to Moriarty, yet he needed more; the number of people in his employ, of operations still in effect that put the safety  and well-being of several highly important individuals at risk, were far too great.

There was too much that could be lost if Moriarty’s plans remained in existence, and Mycroft knew that they would go on with or without the man in charge.

He could kill this man without so much as blinking an eye, but that would not solve any of their problems.

No, that would be far too easy.

Instead, they would simply have to keep at him, hoping that any forced information would prove beneficial.

 

As Moriarty sat in his plastic chair, chained and bloody, he stared icily at each person within the cold room.

They could punish him all they liked, he would never give them anything that they actually wanted.

Why should he?

He would get nothing valuable out of it, and it wasn’t as though they would let him go.

The only reason that he’d been let go last time was because Mycroft had traded information with him, striking a deal betwixt theml.

This time, however, he knew that there were no plans of releasing him.

If Moriarty was to gain his freedom, he would have to set himself free.

Which, he fully intended to do.

Whether or not he would take Sebastian along with him, he wasn’t entirely certain.

 

Each round of physical violence was easy enough to take.

Moriarty was capable of turning off his pain receptors to a surprising degree, and the sensation was more annoying that agonizing.

It wasn’t as though they would go too far with it; he had something that they wanted badly, and so his life wasn’t truly in danger.

Not for the moment.

 

 

 

Around 10:15 am, Sherlock awoke to see John sleeping uncomfortably in the barely padded chair beside the bed.

Sherlock felt bad knowing that John had spent the past week lingering in the hospital on tenterhooks about him.

He would find some way to make it up to John.

The pain that he was in was minimal, thankfully.

He knew that once he was fully healed, that he would be covered in unsightly scarring.

Sherlock supposed that it didn’t really matter, something so superficial.  And, he knew that John would feel the same about it.

Having a pacemaker put in, however, was something that he wasn’t overly thrilled about.

He was glad to be alive; it was just that now he would have to be more careful.

That it would be a help as well as somewhat of a hindrance was something to think about.

 

John stirred in his sleep, his elbow falling off of the cheap wooden arm.

He lurched forward, nearly spilling out of the furniture and onto the hard linoleum flooring.

He awoke sharply, making a pained noise.

His back and neck ached, his legs and right arm were tight, and he was still tired.

John sat back in the chair, yawning widely and trying to stretch his sore muscles.

“Good morning, John.”  Sherlock greeted him softly, giving him a little smile.

John looked over to Sherlock, smiling back.

“Morning, love.”  John replied, leaning in and kissing a pale cheek. 

Even though Sherlock had been awake the previous night, John had some fleeting worries that he might not awaken that day.

It wasn’t incredibly likely, but there was a small chance that Sherlock could lapse back into a coma.

Being a doctor and knowing everything that he did hadn’t exactly helped in calming his mind.

Instead, John had found himself focusing on things that could go wrong.

“Molly came by earlier before her shift.”  He told Sherlock.  “She dropped a little something off for you.”

John reached into a cloth bag and took out a wrapped gift box.

Sherlock looked at it thoughtfully, before taking it from John.

“I’ve never understood why people bring gifts to hospital patients…  What’s the point?”  He asked, not trying to sound ungrateful but doing a very good job of it.

John shrugged.  “I suppose it’s just a way to try and make them feel a bit better.”  He answered.

“The recipient or the person giving the gift?”  Sherlock asked, tugging at the curled blue ribbon.

John raised his eyebrows.  “…  Well, both, I suppose.  I never really thought about it before.”  He said, watching Sherlock.

“Mmmm…”  Sherlock intoned, unwrapping the box.

If it hadn’t been for the drugs and the trauma that had been inflicted upon him, Sherlock would doubtless have guessed what was inside.

But, in all honesty, he hadn’t a clue what it might be.

His mind was clouded and his attention span was compromised.  Sherlock both embraced and detested the sensation entirely.

He opened the white cardboard box to find a new folding pocket magnifier.

One of the last times he’d been in the morgue, Molly had accidentally broken his last one by carelessly knocking it off of the countertop.

It had shattered on the floor, and though he hadn’t reacted that strongly to the event, Molly had instantly felt terribly guilty.

She knew that Sherlock carried it with him just about everywhere, and had had it for quite a long time.

She thought that it must have had some sort of value to him, and that he’d miss it.

And so, Molly had gone out and chosen the nicest one that she could find.

It was a better model than the previous one, and Sherlock was fairly impressed with it.

He hadn’t expected her to replace it, but that she had and had put such thought into choosing such a good magnifier touched him.

“That looks expensive.”  John remarked, as Sherlock set it gently back into the box and passed it to him.

“It is.”  Sherlock confirmed.  “You can see the quality easily.”

John set the box bag in the bag. 

“Molly must have felt quite bad to spend that much on a replacement for me.”  Sherlock said, pushing a button on the side of the bed and elevating the head of the bed, wincing a little as tiny splashes of pain danced along his body with the effort and change in position.

John nodded.  “She’d asked me how much the one she’d broken was worth, and when I couldn’t tell her, she made some calls.”  He said, remembering how stressed Molly had looked.

 “I’d only paid £2.25 for it.”  Sherlock told him.  “It was cheap, but it did the job.”

John wasn’t surprised in the least at learning this.

Sherlock was generally a bit of a spendthrift when it came down to things.

He had a knack for scoping out the best deals, saving quite a lot of money whenever they went shopping.

A few moments later, a nurse came by with something for Sherlock to eat.

She had come by earlier, but he had still been asleep.  Rather than wake him, she decided to come back later.

 

 

Meanwhile, Sebastian Moran was undergoing more questioning.

He was determined not to give anything up, not even a hint.

Of course, Sebastian had unwittingly conveyed some of what they’d wanted to know without even realising it.

He might have been able to clam up so well that he was practically impossible to read; however that was only when he was concentrating very hard.

Mycroft intended to keep Moran under scrutiny in a cell as long as possible.

Seeing just how close he was to Moriarty, he was far too valuable to let go of.

Sebastian had been treated much the same as Moriarty, in being chained to the floor and taken to another room.

The change of scenery seemed to make him a touch uncomfortable.

Naturally, it would.

The other room was cold enough to make the skin tingle after a while, the lighting was minimal, and there was an air of threatening violence within it.

It wasn’t easy to withstand the torture.  He was not as tough as he looked and pretended to be.

When it came to pain, he had a low tolerance.

The bludgeoning that came when he refused to answer the questions satisfactorily was difficult to withstand.

Mycroft looked on whilst his lackey did the dirty work.

“It would be so much easier for you if you would simply tell us what we want to know; you needn’t fear for your safety should you do so.  We will lend you a certain amount of protection, among other things, in exchange for said information.”  Mycroft stated smoothly, leaning gently onto his umbrella.

Sebastian gritted his teeth as pain from the last blows to his abdomen began to turn into an aching throb.

“Not interested, I see…”  Mycroft observed.  “Well, perhaps that will change over time.”

Mycroft gave a nod, and Sebastian was taken to another room entirely.

It was in a lower level that he was shoved into a tiny cell.

There was no bed, no toilet, no light.

It was simply an empty barred cell with absolutely nothing within it.

Sebastian heard the door slam closed behind him, and someone locking it securely before walking away with the only light available.

 

 

A doctor came by late that morning to check up on Sherlock.

For the most part, he was doing well for someone in his condition.

His wounds were mending nicely, his heartbeat and blood pressure were good, and he was alert while awake.

“I’d say in just another day or two, we’ll be able to have you home, Mr. Holmes.”  Doctor Madison told him genially, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder.  “You’ll need to stay on bed rest for the next while, just to be on the safe side, but you should make a tremendous recovery.”

With that, the doctor bid them good day and left.

Sherlock couldn’t wait to be back home.

He disliked the lack of privacy, that he wasn’t to do anything for himself, and the hospital food was dreadful.

John was happy to hear the good news.

Maybe he would plan a ‘welcome home’ party for Sherlock.

It would be a quiet affair, just having their friends over for some cake and a bit of company.

Sherlock would probably pretend to hate it, but be secretly pleased at the attention.

John had gotten lost in his thoughts momentarily, and Sherlock had gotten an idea as to what he was up to with a simple glance.

But, he pretended not to have noticed.

It would mean more to John than to him to have such an affair, but that was just fine.

He wondered if John would want to announce their engagement at that time...

It felt good to know that John truly did want them to stay together, and Sherlock hoped dearly that their love would last throughout their lifetimes.

Perhaps this time, he ought to no think quite so much about what could happen, and simply embrace the moment.

 

John snapped out of his thoughts, catching Sherlock watching him in a relaxed sort of way.

He blushed just a little, the look on Sherlock's face sexy as all hell.

His eyes were half-closed, his pink lips parted a little as he gazed up at John.

"What?"  John asked curiously, fidgeting in his seat.

"Nothing."  Sherlock lied, adjusting the fluffy pillow beneath his head.  

John scoffed.  "With you, it's never 'nothing.'"  He replied teasingly.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, thinking that he would need to find the perfect engagement ring.

Once he was released from hospital, he would stop by Frost of London to find it.

"True."  Sherlock responded, not wanting to discuss what was on his mind.

He wanted to surprise John, and so he would keep the ring a secret.

 

Just as John opened his mouth to say something, the nurse came by to let Sherlock know he had a visitor who came in as the nurse began to leave.

In stepped an extremely solemn Mary Morstan.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

Sherlock observed Mary silently, as her gaze flickered between John and himself.

She blinked, and took a few steps inside, moving to close the door behind her.

“Leave it.”  Sherlock told her tonelessly, watching her carefully as she took a few strides towards the middle of the room.

John felt palpable tension begin to rise, and the way that Sherlock was looking at Mary was making him feel a touch uneasy.

“What’s going on?”  John asked tentatively, crossing his arms in the way that he customarily did when he was uncomfortable in a situation.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mary.  “Would you like to tell him, or shall I?”  He asked boldly, waiting for her response.

Mary bit her lower lip, glancing over to John and swallowing.

The last thing that she wanted was to drive a deeper wedge in between her and John, and divulging a certain little fact would no doubt drive them further apart.

She opened her mouth, but words utterly failed her.

Mary was legitimately terrified of losing John completely and forever.

No matter what had already happened, she still loved him dearly, and to have him want nothing to do with her was one of her biggest fears.

John’s brows knit together.  “Mary?”  He prompted, knowing that whatever it was that he was about to find out, that it wouldn’t be good.

Mary swallowed.  “John, there’s a lot you don’t know about me…  Things you wouldn’t want to know… “  She began, looking nervous.  “You said once that whatever might be in my past, that it didn’t matter to you.”

John’s face turned quite serious as he listened.  “Go on.”  He told her as he braced himself, remembering the afternoon that he’d said those words.

Mary took a breath.  “I don’t even know how to say it, so I’m just going to put it out there.  Jim Moriarty is my brother.”  She admitted heavily. 

“Well, half-brother.”  She clarified as though might make some sort of difference, looking away from his eyes and down to the floor.

John closed his eyes for a moment.

“Right, okay.”  He said, a mix of emotions beginning to swirl in him.  “Everything else aside, why are you telling me this now?”

Mary faltered once more, seeing the pain and anger in John’s eyes.

“Because, she is in Moriarty’s employ, and has been for the past two decades.”  Sherlock answered for her, as Mary felt shame rise.  “And that is where Mary’s reason lies.  It all comes down to that.”

John’s jaw set, feeling more betrayed by her than he ever had.

He was also a little upset that Sherlock hadn’t mentioned this information before, and wondered how long that he’d known it.

He began to wonder if everything that they’d had together had been just one great big lie, something that Moriarty had instructed her to do.

“John, I’m sorry.”  Mary apologised, her voice straining as her heart threatened to break into pieces.  “Really, I am.”

“Why are you here?”  John inquired coldly as he ignored her, his eyes taking on a steely glint.

Mary sniffed, tears brimming her eyes.

“John, you have to understand, I was given orders and I had to follow through with them…”  She pleaded softly, looking back into his soulful brown eyes.

“You knew he was alive, didn’t you?”  John suddenly asked, not caring about how upset Mary was, only feeling his anger rising above all the other emotions that were churning. 

Mary nodded.  “Yes, but how could I tell you?  You would have left me for good, abandoned me completely.  I couldn’t, _I can’t_ , live with that.”  She professed, tears slipping down her pale cheeks.

“You still haven’t answered my question from earlier; why are you here?”  John repeated, ignoring her.

Sherlock knew precisely why she was there; he had been expecting her to turn up sooner rather than later.

Mary looked directly over to Sherlock, and she could tell that he knew.

“John… Unless I go through with something I was supposed to do ages ago, I’m as good as dead.”  She explained regretfully.  “That night when I shot Sherlock, it had all been thoroughly planned.  Only, instead of simply wounding him, I was supposed to kill him.”

“I…  I’m not even entirely sure why I didn’t go through with it.”  She confessed.  “I wouldn’t be in this mess now if I had lined up my shot to his heart.”

John’s nostrils flared, regretting ever trusting her.  “And so you have to kill him now in order to save your skin, is that it?”  He demanded quietly, his tone livid.

Mary almost wished that he would shout at her, strike her, anything but be so calm.

“That pretty well sums things up.”  She agreed limply, wringing her hands as she stood looking perfectly wretched.  “Only, I’ve left that sort of life behind me, John.”

He looked over to Sherlock.  “Is she lying?”  John asked, pointing at her, not daring to even fleetingly believe Mary’s words.

“No, she is telling you the truth.”   Sherlock confirmed.  “She’s here as an ally, not an enemy, John.”

John snorted.  “Some help she ought to be.”  He grumbled, shaking his head.

“I could just kill Sherlock instead, if you prefer.”  Mary retorted heatedly, getting frustrated.

She had come of her own free will, to explain the situation and to do what she could to help.

If she hadn’t felt such strong feelings for John, she would have simply found an easy way to slaughter the consulting detective, take her son and start a new life somewhere.

Murdering Sherlock was to have been her last job.  Why had she gone and fallen in love with John Watson in the first place?

  John glared at her.

“I think you’ve done enough, we don’t need your help.  I think it would be best if I take full custody of our son, considering the situation.”  John told her dismissively.  “I don’t want you putting Michael in danger.”

Mary’s mouth hung open.

“Michael is staying with me, and I’ll have no debate about it.  You try and take him from me and I can promise that you’ll never see either of us again in your lifetime.”  She swore to him, fully prepared to act on her words.

“That’s enough with the domestics, I think.”  Sherlock interjected suddenly, getting fed up.  “John, I realise that you aren’t exactly thrilled with the situation, but Mary might prove to be useful.  And, since she wants to save her own skin as well, her cooperation is relatively assured.”

John frowned deeply, but knew that Sherlock was right.  He always was.

“And, Mary.”  Sherlock looked back to her.  “You may love your son dearly, but should you ever attempt to take Michael away from John, I will make certain that you regret it.”

Mary felt a stab of uneasiness, though she did her best to mask it.

Sherlock took his mobile out of the drawer of the bedside table, turning it on and sending a text message to his brother informing him that he had someone that could possibly ease the investigation into Moriarty and details regarding him.

All Mycroft had to do was send someone to pick her up.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Within twenty minutes, a small group of discreet agents had taken Mary away, letting John know that his son would be brought to him soon.

He merely nodded, feeling a mess.

When they room was empty but for him and Sherlock, John leaned against a wall.

He let out a heavy sigh.

Sherlock knew there wasn’t much he could do in making John feel better.  He would simply need some time to deal with this little bombshell that had been dropped on him without so much as a hint of warning.

“You knew…  Why didn’t you tell me?”  John asked quietly, looking into his blue eyes imploringly.  “Why would you keep something like that a secret?”

Sherlock took a moment before responding to this, as he pressed gently down on a particularly itchy set of stitches.

“I had only mere suspicions; small hints at what Mary’s truth would turn out to be.”  Sherlock began to answer, trying to choose his words in a way that hopefully wouldn’t upset John further.  “It was only quite recently that I was able to confirm my presentiments.”

“My reason for not informing you of the facts is because I was trying to protect you from the truth as long as was possible.  Especially considering that you would have simultaneously had to deal with both the reality of Mary’s situation and my meeting with her brother.”  Sherlock finished.

John looked incredibly worn-out.

“I think I need some air…”  John mumbled, turning and heading out of the room.

With that, he left the room in silence.

 

 

Over the next day and a half, things had been fairly quiet.

John had come back to the hospital after an hour or so, letting him know that he would be going back home and would come by the next day, which he had.

He really had needed some space, some time to think about everything.

Sherlock understood, and didn’t mind.

Sherlock had been released from hospital the day after that, arriving home to find the flat decorated and a small group of friends in the den welcoming him home.

Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Anderson looked pleased to see him.

“You gave us a good scare, Sherlock.”  Mrs. Hudson told him, coming over and hugging him in a motherly sort of way.

Sherlock winced ever so slightly, as her head came to rest quite near his heart.

He was still in some pain from the surgery, but he didn’t let on that she had accidentally hurt him.

Greg nodded in agreement.  “Glad to have you up and running again.”  He said in his rough voice, stepping beside John, who was holding Michael.

Greg extended an index finger near the infant, and Michael latched onto it curiously, making him grin widely.

Sherlock nodded, patting Mrs. Hudson’s back as she let go of him.

He looked around at them all, feeling rather loved.

Sherlock had changed so much since they had all come into his life, bit by bit breaking away one of the walls that he’d put up to keep everyone at a distance.

And, as much as they cared about him, Sherlock cared as much in return.

Of course, he didn’t show it as often as he should have, but he cared all the same and they knew it.

“Ooh, sit down, dear, you look dreadful.”  Mrs. Hudson told him, and Sherlock let himself be guided into his customary chair.

Molly smiled at this.

Sherlock looked up at her, remembering the gift she’d dropped off for him at the hospital.

He thanked her for it, making her blush.

“It was nothing.”  She said dismissively, waving his words away.

Sherlock had never liked how easily she was to diminish any sort of significance when it came to herself.

“I can assure you that it is most definitely something, and I appreciate it.”  He countered genuinely, making her face ruddy further.

John encouraged everyone to take a seat where they could, feeling bad about not having any refreshments to offer them.

He had done some light shopping yesterday, but hadn’t been up to lugging back bags of stuff home.

Everyone talked for a while, pleasant banter going back and forth, before Mrs. Hudson snuck over to her flat and brought over a tray of biscuits, crackers, and fruit punch.

John thanked her, grabbing a cracker for Michael, as they all took a little something from the tray.

 

Since her arrival at the high-security government building, Mary had gone through invasive questioning.

Mary had given them everything that they had asked for without hesitation.

She had practically given up at this point, knowing that she had lost everything that mattered to her.

John would never take her back now, and she highly doubted that he would want to be anywhere near her again.

Mary knew that her chances of getting her son back were quite slim, that John would probably do whatever he could to keep their son with him now that he knew the truth.

Besides, if Sherlock told him the rest, unearthed more of her secrets, then even that slim chance would be non-existent.

Her mad brother, the last of her family, hadn’t mattered to her in years.  The sole reason that she had anything to do with him at all since they were young adults was because she felt that she’d had to.

Moriarty had kpet her in his clutches, and she knew better than to go against him.

But now that he was in the custody of one of the most treacherous branches of the government, now that his life was beginning to crumble all around him, she saw no reason to take her chance to break free of him forever.

Even if she was to have nothing else, Mary wanted her freedom, and by cooperating with these agents and with Mycroft Holmes, she had a good chance of redeeming it.

The past 30 hours or so had been rough on her; question after question, being commanded to explain this and that in excruciating detail, keeping her awake to feed them the information that they needed.

Mary knew that the information that she possessed would be the downfall of her brother, and she didn’t care.

When she had agreed to work for her brother Mary had never intended to have done the dirty deeds that she had done at his command.  Some of the things that she had done for him would haunt her for the rest of her days.

Mary didn’t care how many people went down with him, either; it was more than time that his reign was over.

 

 

It was late afternoon before John and Sherlock had the flat to themselves.

John was thinking about how he needed to set up the extra room for Michael, and pick up not only groceries, but everything that Michael would need.

He’d never set up an area for Michael at the flat, since his son was never over for all that long really. 

Any nights that he stayed over, Michael had slept with John and Sherlock in their bed.

Sherlock sat down beside him, being careful of Michael lying sleepily on the soft couch cushion between them.

“I know that you’ve wanted custody of Michael since he was born, John…  Perhaps you should think about acting on that now.”  Sherlock proposed softly, looking down at the baby and then to John.

John had strongly indicated that he intended to keep Micheal with him, but Sherlock knew that John had been upset in those moments, and that his threat to Mary had been a fairly empty one.

John shook his head.  “It’s not that simple, Sherlock.”  He said a touch bitterly. 

“Why not?”  Sherlock asked, bringing his eyebrows together.

John always did tend to make things more difficult than they had to be.

“Because, well…  It just isn’t.”  He replied, feeling a hint of frustration rise.  “Mary’s his mother, he should stay with her.  And, besides, Michael has been with her since day one, it wouldn’t be fair to either of them to take him now.”

Sherlock didn’t agree.

“You allowed Mary to take custody of your son.  She shared no indication of her wishes when it came to the issue, yet you didn’t so much as question it when it was time to bring Michael home from the hospital.  _That_ wasn’t fair.”  He pointed out validly.  “Michael is very young; he will adapt easily to a new home with people that he's not completely familiar with.”

John let out a breath, thinking about this.

“If you want Michael to stay here with us, I can arrange that quite easily.  All you have to do is say the word.”  Sherlock added, fully prepared to follow through.

He knew that Mary would likely be free again soon enough, considering her willingness to help as she could, and that any such actions would need to be taken soon.

John looked at his sleeping son, looking perfectly wretched.

Sherlock could see the insecurity and self-doubt creeping into his mind.

“What do I know about raising a child?”  John muttered more to himself than to Sherlock, who put a hand on his back.

“About as much as any other first-time parent.”  Sherlock told him honestly.  “You’ve read the baby books, and I know that as time goes on and Michael grows, that you’ll continue to learn.  You are a good father, John.  Don’t doubt yourself.”

John felt a tear slip down his cheek.

Sherlock leaned over and kissed it away. 

John knew what he wanted, and maybe Sherlock was right; maybe he should take custody.

“Whatever it is that you choose to do, I’ll be right alongside you every step of the way.”  Sherlock promised.


	12. Chapter 12

As John spent the night awake, thinking about what he ought to do, Moriarty learned of his sister’s treachery and silently vowed to slay her himself.

Though, at this point, there may not be any such prospect.

They had him pretty well cornered, and it wasn’t as if he would simply be let go.

Jim Moriarty was outstandingly intelligent, and under different circumstances he would likely have had excellent odds.

But, against Mycroft Holmes, that would be much more problematic.

Sherlock wasn’t quite as clever as Moriarty, which was in part why the fun with him hadn’t lasted.

There was no challenge with Sherlock; it was too easy.

Mycroft was much more of a challenge.

The elder Holmes was just as smart, if not smarter, than he was.

Jim knew that his chances weren’t good if he didn’t get himself out of this predicament and soon.

It wasn’t as though they would keep him about.

No, they would have him taken care of and that would be that.

Jim knew exactly what he was dealing with.

 

As he listened to what was being said, and what was being left unsaid, it was apparent that they had what they needed.

Mary had provided them with ample intel, and they had been able to figure out the rest fairly easily.

Mary was one of the very few that he’d kept in the know, and he had been able to trust her, at least when he’d told her.

He’d known that there was a chance, just like with anyone else, that she might double-cross him, but Jim had been confident enough to predict that he’d be in a position to remedy any damage she might inflict.

Instead, she was likely the one who had signed his death warrant.

It wasn’t long after the agent had finished speaking that Mycroft strolled in, looking as arrogant as ever.

He tapped his umbrella on the floor, satisfied at the sharp click that resounded off of the walls.

“It would appear that you are no longer essential to our cause; is there anything you would like to say in order to endeavour justifying your continued existence?”  He asked smoothly, watching him smugly.

Jim reflected on this.

“My skills are tremendous, as you are well aware.”  He said, not sounding altogether worried about his predicament.  “What if I were to join your side, become one of the so-called ‘good guys’?”

Mycroft gave a small snort, crossing his legs as he stood.

“As if I would give you the chance.”  He stated bluntly, looking ever so slightly amused.  “You and I both know quite well that you are not capable of doing such a thing.  It is against your nature.”

Moriarty gave a small grin.

“Well, I suppose that’s true enough.”  He agreed, giving a shrug.  “I’m not going to sit here and plead for my life, if that’s what you are expecting.”

He stared at Mycroft, feeling not even a hint of fear.

“If I had anything of value to offer you, then you would have already asked for it.  Since you have not, then there is nothing that I can do to make a deal for my life.”  Moriarty finished, accepting his fate easily.

Mycroft nodded.

“Then there is no more to be said.”  He said, stifling a yawn.

He had been up for nearly 39 hours now, and he was feeling the effects.

“Your execution will take place in half an hour.”  He announced, before turning to leave.

“What, no last request?”  Jim asked, half-amused.

Mycroft turned to look at him.

“And, what, pray tell, would your last request be?”  He asked, choosing to indulge him.

“I’m horny; let me play with Sebastian.”  He answered unabashedly.

Mycroft hadn’t known what he had expected, but it hadn’t been this.

Sebastian Moran was no mastermind; he would not be able to assist Moriarty in any sort of successful escape attempt.

It seemed a harmless enough appeal.

“Fine.”  Mycroft agreed, leaving the room and giving instructions to the guards outside and arranging for Moran to be brought to Moriarty.

 

 

Sebastian was marched down a corridor accompanied by a few armed guards, glad to be out of his cramped and filthy cell.

His body ached terribly, and he was limping due to an injury to his hip from an earlier interrogation.

He had no idea of what was going on, and it caused him a good deal of stress.

He was confident enough that Jim would get them out of this fix, but until then…

 

They came to a stop outside of a shut door, which was opened and he was shoved unceremoniously inside, the door being locked closed behind him.

Inside the room stood Moriarty.

He was even more pale than usual, with dark rings beneath his cinnamon coloured eyes, and he had a few days growth of beard.

Sebastian noted the bruises that he could see marring Jim’s delicate skin.

“They haven’t told you.”  Jim said softly, gazing at Sebastian.

In some sort of vague, twisted way, he did love this big hulk of a man.

Sebastian’s jaw set.  “Told me what?”  He demanded, having a feeling that he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear.

“Never mind that for now, take off your clothes.”  He instructed firmly.

Any other time, Sebastian would have relented without a second thought.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”  He said stubbornly, crossing his arms and squinting his eyes a bit.

Jim took a few steps toward him, looking at him thoughtfully.

“Tonight is to be my last night on this earth.”  He admitted.  “I’ve only got another twenty-five minutes or so left, and I wanted to spend them with you.”

Sebastian’s jaw dropped.

He had never expected something like this to happen.

He’d always had absolute faith in Jim, and not a doubt in his mind that Jim would always see them through.

“No, you’re clever, you can find a way out.  You always do.”  Sebastian said almost pleadingly, his voice low and filled with emotion.

Jim shook his head.

“Not this time.”  He admitted a touch bitterly. 

He had finally been defeated, and in such an inglorious manner.

Sebastian blinked, thinking panicked thoughts.

There must be some way out of this, there had to be.

“Think, damn it!”  Sebastian spat, the veins in his neck beginning to display prominently.  “You can do it, I know you can.”

Jim gave Sebastian a look that instantly quieted him.

“There is nothing to be done.  It’s over, Seb.”  He told him resignedly, his manner completely calm.

Sebastian swallowed hard, letting it sink in.

“I doubt that your fate will be the same as mine, so you don’t have too much to worry about.”  Jim said, trying to soothe him even a little.  “In fact, you’ll likely not even get much of a prison sentence, considering.”

“Now, I’m down to twenty minutes.  What do you want to do?”  He asked gently.

He found himself only wanting to do whatever made Sebastian happiest in these moments.

What he wanted ceased to matter, and it was a strange experience.

Normally, Jim only cared about his own wants and needs.

Sebastian couldn’t think clearly at all.

This was a living nightmare, and there was no way out of it.

Jim came up to him, and embraced him tightly.

Sebastian returned the hug, wrapping his arms around the smaller man and squeezing.

“I love you, Jim.”  Sebastian managed to say for the first time, hating that it was under such tragic circumstances.

“I…”  Jim began, not sure exactly what he felt for Jim, but thought that it must equate to love somehow.  “Love you, too.”

Sebastian felt his heart beat faster at these words.

Finally, Jim had said the words that Sebastian had been secretly craving for ages, and it made his heart split into pieces.

Just as soon as their love had been admitted to, it was about to be taken away forever.

There were no other words to be spoken, and they simply held one another for what seemed like ages.

Just as Sebastian was about to kiss Jim, the door opened and six armed agents entered the room.

Sebastian ignored them, leaning down and tasting Jim fervently, the kiss being returned passionately.

“All right, break it up.”  A woman barked, coming up and pulling them apart, and grabbing Jim’s arm.  “Let’s go.”  She told him indifferently, escorting him out of the room.

Just before the door slammed shut, Jim looked back at Sebastian longingly.

Sebastian found himself flying into a rage, and he threw a chair against a wall, breaking a cheap plastic leg off of it.

He picked it up, smashing it lividly against the wall with all of his strength until it was nothing but bits and pieces, tears streaming down his face.

Jim was all he had; without him, he had nobody.  He had nothing at all.


	13. Chapter 13

Jim Moriarty’s death was quick enough, and had been witnessed by a small handful of Mycroft’s team.

 

At 10:26 pm exactly, Agent Willard administered lethal injection to the criminal.

 

Moriarty lay on the bed in his prison, feeling a fiery sensation as the liquid began making its way throughout his veins.

 

The burning became more and more excruciating as the toxins worked their way through his system.

 

His breathing became more laboured, and his vision became steadily clouded as he fell into a state of half-consciousness.

 

Jim Moriarty could hear every beat of his heart begin to slow, gradually declining.

 

Within three minutes, it ceased beating.

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, John awoke much earlier than Sherlock, and he had come to a decision regarding Michael as he sat in the dining room.

 

While he was still upset about Mary keeping such a thing from him, John had indeed told her that her past did not matter to him.

 

And, she had offered to help them.

 

Sherlock had said that she was telling the truth about that.

 

As long as Mary was staying out of dangerous activities for their son’s sake, then he supposed that it was fine for her to take a certain amount of responsibility for him.

 

But, he wanted to see his son more often.

 

John had always felt that Michael would be better off with his mother.

 

After all, women always seemed to know just what to do when it came to kids.

 

John would have liked nothing more than to keep Michael with him, taking him on full-time.

 

But, that wouldn’t be fair to his son…  Or to Mary.

 

Which was why he wanted to take him every other week; that way, they both were able to spend an equal amount of time with him, and it should be easy enough for Michael to adapt to.

 

Of course, Michael’s birthdays and all special occasions would be a shared experience.

 

John got the impression that Sherlock wanted Michael around nearly as much as he himself did, and so he doubted that Sherlock would mind having him around more often.

 

Still, John hadn’t felt at all comfortable with the threat that Mary had made about taking Michael away from him.

 

He was a little worried that she might just do that if she got Michael back.

 

And, with that notion brewing in his mind, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

 

Why did this have to be so hard?

 

He went on to over-analyse the situation for the next hour, tying his stomach in knots as he did so.

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock came in to find John looking incredibly sombre, deep in his thoughts.

 

He knew what was bothering John, and that he ought to stay out of it.

 

John should come to his own decisions on the matter.

 

It was only after Sherlock sat down at the table with toast and jelly that John noticed that he was there.

 

“Morning.”  He said a touch grumpily.

 

“Good morning.”  Sherlock returned, taking a bite of his breakfast.

 

John bit his lip.

 

“Sherlock…  Do you suppose that Mary ever would run off with Michael?”  He asked, his brow wrinkled as he stressed.

 

Sherlock contemplated this for a moment.

 

“Considering recent events, and Mary in general, I would say that she wouldn’t.”  Sherlock answered carefully.  “She was only bluffing at the hospital.  She still loves you and likely always will, which is almost certainly the sole reason she is yet here at all.”

 

John nodded slowly.

 

“How sure are you?”  He asked, thinking about what Sherlock had said.

 

“Very.”  Sherlock said confidently, taking another bite.

 

John sighed.

 

“Right.”  He said decisively, before explaining what he was going to do about his son.

 

Sherlock thought this to be a good idea.

 

“Quite sensible of you.”  Sherlock said encouragingly, wanting to be as supportive as he could be, though he was a little disappointed in John’s choice.

 

John looked less stressed, feeling good about his decision.

 

Sherlock was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded, and so he began taking a few deep breaths and relaxing as much as he could.

 

Sherlock did have a panic attack, but this time, it wasn’t quite as bad.

 

His heart pounded as it always did, and the usual feelings of helplessness threatened to suffocate him, but he had begun to simply let the attack do what it would.

 

To embrace it, dare it to do its worst.

 

And, he found that it had actually helped.

 

Sherlock was able to continue talking with John throughout it, though it was a bit of a struggle.

 

It still felt dreadful, but the attack didn’t last as long.

 

As he’d been asked to, John tried to ignore the attack unless Sherlock told him otherwise and continued on as normal.

 

This also seemed to help, to keep Sherlock grounded.

 

And, it wasn’t long before Sherlock was through it.

 

“All right?”  John asked gently, reaching out and grabbing his hand across the table.

 

Sherlock had gone pale and slightly sweaty, which often happened with an attack.

 

“Fine.”  Sherlock answered, realising just how much better he was getting at managing the condition.

 

 

 

Just as they were getting up from the table, Sherlock checked his phone, which he’d turned to silent overnight so that they could both get a full night’s rest.

 

He checked his messages, one of which was Mycroft informing him of Moriarty’s death, and of Mary’s release from custody.

 

Sherlock relayed the information to John, who was visibly relieved upon hearing about the death of the criminal.

 

“I’m glad that it’s finally over…”  John said, feeling something of a weight lifted.

 

He could only imagine how Sherlock must have felt about the news.

 

As for Mary, he expected her to show up any time.

 

She might call, and she might not, so he would prepare himself for either eventuality.

 

“Yes, one less threat to deal with.”  Sherlock replied musingly, wondering what sort of information that Mycroft had obtained that had rendered Moriarty useless to him.

 

John raised an eyebrow.

 

“Moriarty was the threat… And, now that he’s dead and you never have to deal with him again, you don’t seem exactly enthusiastic about it.”  He said, surprised at the lack of reaction.

 

Sherlock wasn’t one to react strongly to most things, but this was big.

 

Before Sherlock could respond to this, Michael began to cry.

 

John went and retrieved the squalling infant, cuddling him.

 

Sherlock went over, taking a peek at the lad.

 

“He has a headache.”  He announced after watching Michael for perhaps fifteen seconds.  “A bad one, too.”

 

John would have scoffed if he hadn’t known Sherlock as well as he did.

 

He headed to the washroom, opening the medicine cabinet while holding Michael carefully, taking out a bottle of liquid acetaminophen specifically designed for babies.

 

He went back into the den, sitting down and placing Michael in his lap.

 

John skilfully dosed the child, who did his utmost to spit the medication out, but failing for the most part.

 

Michael was still crying a bit, and John jostled him gently, trying to soothe him.

 

Sherlock sat beside them, looking down at Michael with a tender look on his face.

 

He hadn’t especially cared for children before Michael was born.

 

Not that he hadn’t liked them, but was more or less indifferent.

 

But, this child was a part of John, and that made him special.

 

And, since having Michael around, Sherlock had found that he rather liked being around children.

 

Or, at least, certain ones.  The less intelligent ones he couldn’t stand in the least.

 

“John…”  Sherlock began, before thinking better of saying anything.  “Never mind.”

 

John frowned.

 

“No, out with it, what is it you were going to say?”  John asked a little demandingly.

 

He never had liked it when people started saying something and then not bothering to finish.

 

Sherlock fidgeted slightly.

 

“It’s only that I wonder whether it might be a better situation if you took full custody of Michael.  We could provide a stable, loving home life for him and –“  He started before John cut him off.

 

“And, this is about you, isn’t it?”  John asked, his tone gentle.

 

Sherlock couldn’t honestly say that it wasn’t.

 

“In part, yes.”  He admitted with a touch of hesitance, reaching over and pulling down Michael’s shirt, which had ridden up and was exposing some of his little tummy.  “Of course, that isn’t the only reason.  I really do feel that we could provide a better home for him.”

 

John was quiet.

 

Making this decision was turning out to be impossible.

 

Whatever he chose to do, it would affect the rest of Michael’s life.

 

It wasn’t something to take lightly in the least.

 

“Why?”  John asked, wanting to hear some good reasons for it.

 

Maybe what Sherlock had to say would make all the difference.

 

“For one, I can usually tell what it is that Michael needs, and right away.  Not that Mary doesn’t know her own son well enough, only that my skills allow me to comprehend his wants and needs better.”  Sherlock told him, his ego showing.  “Also, we live in a better area.  And, we would not leave Michael with a babysitter that we don’t know, we have trusted friends to do that instead.”

 

John considered his words carefully, wanting to be certain to come to a completely sound decision.

 

Sherlock listed off a few more reasons, all of which John thought were sound enough.

 

John looked helpless, feeling the weight of the situation completely.

 

He felt incredibly guilty for what he was considering doing to Mary.

It didn’t seem altogether right.

 

“It isn’t as though Michael would never see his mother.”  Sherlock told John.  “I know you wouldn’t do that, you’re far too kind.”

 

Michael began to fall asleep, his pain subsiding.

 

“It would hurt Mary…”  John said, not wanting to cause her pain, no matter what had happened in the past.  “Break her heart completely.  I don’t know if I can do that to her.”

After all, he had forgiven her up until learning about her brother, which might not have been all that fair. 

Not to mention that he did still care for her, still considered her a part of their strange family.

Should what he recently learned about his ex-wife really change everything?

 

“Life is often harrowing, John.  That’s simply the way it is.”  Sherlock stated honestly, doing his best to sway John to see things his way.  “When it comes to Michael’s custody, there is no truly fair way to manage the issue.  Even if you both took turns, it would inevitably put strain on Michael.  And, if either you or Mary has main custody, then it isn’t fair to the other parent.”

 

John swallowed, trying to make his mind up.

 

Sherlock had made some tremendously valid points, though John didn’t agree with everything that he’d said.

“I can’t be selfish about this, Sherlock.”  John said, beginning to come to a conclusion.  “You know that I’d like to keep Michael with us, but Mary deserves to be an equal part of his life as much as we do.”

Sherlock listened, staying quiet.

“I can’t take him away from her.  It wouldn’t be right.”  John went on, feeling that this was the only real solution to the situation.  “You said that she wouldn’t go and leave with Michael, that we can trust her.  And, as long as that remains the case, then I want to share equal custody with her.”

Sherlock knew that John was making the right choice.

He wasn’t a man that wanted very much, and he’d allowed his own desire to have Michael around to take control.

Sherlock realised how selfish he was being.

It wasn’t something that ought to be about him, anyway.

John was Michael’s father, and it was his decision to make.

“Of course, you’re completely right.”  Sherlock agreed, feeling just a touch stupid.  “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

John shook his head.

“No, I get it.”  He said understandingly, leaning against Sherlock.  “It’s not always easy to give up someone you love, even if it’s only for a little while.”

Sherlock put his arm around him comfortingly, and they just sat there together in silence, merely enjoying one another’s company and thinking about the decision that had just been made.


	14. Chapter 14

Sebastian Moran had been moved to a different area, to another cell which was more comfortable than the last one he’d been confined to before being brought to where he’d had his last encounter with Jim.

This one had a toilet, lighting, and a sink, as well as a bed.

There wasn’t much else, but it was clean.

Not that he cared much.

Jim was gone.

In his grief, nothing else mattered.

There hadn’t been many people in his life who had put up with him as Jim had.

He had been cold, and at times rather cruel, but Sebastian understood that it was just his nature.

At least he had let him stay.

Sebastian’s own family had disowned him long ago, and people generally didn’t like him very much.

Jim had given him companionship, no matter how odd it might have been, had given him employment and a new life.

Sebastian had no idea where he would have been at this point if it wasn’t for Jim.

He’d fallen hard for that smooth criminal, and his loss was heartrendingly painful.

Sebastian didn’t know, nor did he particularly care, about what was to happen to him.

He was far too deep in his misery for it to matter.

 

 

After a quick lunch by the side of a lovely water fountain, Mary called up John.

She fully expected him to still be upset with her, and she was a bit worried that she would never be able to earn his trust back.

After a few rings, she thought that perhaps he was ignoring her call, and went to hang up.

But, just as she was about to end the call, John answered.

She heard him say hello.

“Hi, John…”  She began a touch nervously.  “I was wondering if I could swing by.  I… I’d like to pick Michael up.”

John agreed.

“All right, but we need to talk.”  He told her seriously.

Mary nodded.  “Of course.  I’ll be there within the hour.”  She replied, not sure how she felt about the sombre tone in his voice.

 

After hanging up, she started heading over to Baker Street, thinking about what she might say to help remedy the situation.

She felt that it would be good for them to talk.

John was usually a rational man to deal with, and she felt relatively optimistic that they would be able to work things out somehow.

It might take a while, but Mary was determined to get back in his good graces.

Mary realised that while John knew that she held many secrets from him, that it would still be tough for John to learn any one of them.

She would simply have to do her best to prove to him that she was still worthy of his trust.

 

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock fed Michael some banana-blueberry baby food that he’d made himself (he didn’t approve of the kinds sold in supermarkets, with all of the preservatives and such), as John finished washing the dishes.

Michael was beginning to fuss, feeling energetic.

His headache had gone, and his nap had refreshed him greatly.

Sitting in his highchair was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Come now, open your mouth.”  Sherlock encouraged him softly, though it was in vain.

John watched them out of the corner of his eye.

Michael was having none of it, and kept his mouth clamped shut.

Sherlock offered him the spoon, which he took clumsily.

Michael stared at it for a few moments, before moving it in the general direction of his mouth.

After a few tries, he managed to get the nearly empty spoon in his mouth, having spilled its contents onto the highchair table and onto his face.

Sherlock went to clean him up, but he fussed more.

“Fine, revel in your filth.”  He stated, refilling the spoon for Michael, who did slightly better at feeding himself another mouthful.

Soon enough, Michael was full.

Having finished the dishes, John decided to give Michael a quick bath.

He was all gooey from eating, his face and front were a complete mess, which Michael seemed rather pleased about.

As John washed the baby up, Sherlock cleaned the highchair.

 

 

Mary arrived forty-six minutes later, and was promptly invited in.

“Michael’s down for a nap in the bedroom.”  John told her, gesturing for her to sit down. 

Mary nodded, her hands clasped in front of her.  “How has he been?”  She asked, having missed her son terribly.

“Great, just great.”  John answered, sitting down across from her. 

John offered her a biscuit from the tin on the coffee table, which she declined.

“I wanted to talk to you about Michael.”  John said, his tone even.  “We never did discuss arrangements when it came to his custody.”

Mary paid close attention to what John said, choosing to wait until he’d finished speaking before saying a word.

“I chose to let you take Michael home from the hospital, to have him stay predominantly with you, simply because you are his mother.”  John paused, being careful with what he was saying.  “But, I’ve come to realise that I can care for him just as well as you can, and I want equal custody.”

Mary let out a breath.

“You had me worried for a minute there.”  She said in relief, a hand on her chest.  “I could have sworn you were about to tell me you wanted Michael all to yourself.”

John looked a bit guilty.

“I did think about that, to be honest with you.”  John admitted, licking his lips.

Mary blinked.

“But, I just couldn’t do it.”  John said, shaking his head.

Mary’s face softened.  “And, I’m glad of that.  You’re a good man, John.”  She told him, leaning over and placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“Of course, we can share equal custody, he’s just as much yours as he is mine.”  She agreed easily.  “If you’d only said something sooner, I would have said yes then.”

John felt much better now that everything was out in the open.

“I was thinking every other week would be good.”  John suggested, relaxing a bit.

“That sounds just fine.”  Mary said, as Sherlock walked into the room.

“Don’t mind me, I’m only retrieving a book.”  He told them, heading straight for the bookshelf and taking the item before leaving just as quickly as he’d come in.

Mary watched as Sherlock left.

“So, how’re things between you two, anyway?”  She asked, happy to see that Sherlock had healed so well after being so viciously attacked.

John smiled.  “We, uh, we’re engaged now.”  He announced, blushing a little.  “Everything’s going really well.”

Mary gave him a smile tinged with sadness.

“I’m happy for you, really I am.”  She told him, biting her lip.  “I do wish that things had worked out between us, but it’s good to see that you’ve got someone like Sherlock.”

John nodded.

“Thanks.  And, I’m sure that you’ll find someone, too.”  He said, feeling that twinge of guilt once more.  “You are a wonderful woman, Mary.  And, I know you’re going to find the right man for you.”

Mary wasn’t so sure about that.

After John, she didn’t really have any plans when it came to men.

Mary felt sure that she’d never find someone she loved as much as she loved him, and besides, she didn’t really think that she’d ever be truly over him.

“Yeah, I’m sure that I will.”  She lied, getting up from the sofa.  “Now, I really should be going.”

John got to his feet.  “I’ll just get Michael, then.”  He said, before ducking into the bedroom.

He scooped the child up, and brought him to Mary, who received him happily.

“There’s my baby boy!”  She cooed, grinning widely at Michael, who smiled back.

“So, you’ll bring him back next Tuesday, then?”  John asked, wanting to have things perfectly clear.

“Yes, John.”  She said, snuggling Michael to her bosom.  “And, I’ll pick him up the Tuesday after.”

John offered her the baby food that Sherlock had made.

“It won’t be good by the time Michael’s back, so you may as well take it with you.”  John explained.

Mary nodded.

“Yeah, all right.”  She said, raising an eyebrow.  “Since when do you cook?”

John never had been very skilled when it came to culinary matters.

He could brew tea, make coffee, and make a few simple dishes, but otherwise he was useless in the kitchen.

“Today’s Tuesday, so… Oh, right, since never.”  He replied jokingly.  “No, it was Sherlock.  He doesn’t like the idea of market baby food.”

Mary had never really considered making her own baby food, thinking that it would simply be too much work.

“How long does it take him to make this stuff?”  She asked curiously, looking at the jars.

“Maybe an hour.”  John answered.  “It’s actually a lot simpler than you’d think.”

Mary looked impressed.

“Well, maybe I’ll get the recipe off of him sometime.”  She told him, thinking that it really was a good idea.

She walked to the door, and John opened it for her.

“See ya.”  Mary told him with a smile, making Michael wave goodbye.

John gave them both a smile, and told Mary to take care, before closing the door behind them.

 

Over the next few weeks, Sebastian stayed in state of severe depression.

It had gotten so bad, that he had refused food and drink and had ended up needing medical attention.

He had been transferred to a local gaol, considering that he held no use at the time being for the government, and was awaiting trial.

Of course, it was hardly likely that he would be let off.

His court date was in only a few short days, though he hadn’t bothered to even seek legal counsel.

One of the guards, Jerry Martin, had instantly felt pity for him upon his arrival.

He’d been told most of the story, and felt sympathetic towards Sebastian.

Jerry was still pretty new to this line of work, and had been warned not to get friendly with the prisoners, but he had decided to try and do something nice for Sebastian.

He came up to Sebastian’s cell.

“Pssst!”  Jerry tried to get his attention as he lay facing the wall on his cot.

Sebastian didn’t move a muscle.

“I’ve got something for you.”  Jerry told him quietly, reaching into his pocket and taking a small white envelope out of it.

Sebastian acted as though he heard nothing at all, closing his eyes and ignoring him completely.

“Okay, fine, I get it…”  Jerry said, feeling discouraged.  “I’ll just leave this here, then.”

He scooted the envelope into his cell, before walking away and continuing on in his work.

After a couple of minutes, Sebastian’s curiosity got the better of him and he peeked down to the floor and spied the envelope.

He just looked at it for a few moments, before getting off of the bed and picking it up.

Sebastian tore the end off, and took out the contents of the envelope.

His breath caught in his throat as he realised what it was, tears welling up in his eyes.

It was a photograph of Jim.

Sebastian felt a wet tear slip down his cheek, as he swallowed hard.

It meant a lot to him to have something like this, even if it hurt to look at it.

Sebastian went to the front of his cell, looking for the guard who had left the gift, but he was nowhere to be found.

Sebastian lay back down, holding the photograph and staring at it, letting his mind wander back to happier times.


	15. Chapter 15

Over the next couple of months, John and Sherlock planned their wedding, the arrangement with Mary was going well, and John’s sister Harry came to visit for a brief while when her flat was being fumigated.

She had always had an inkling that John was bi, if not entirely gay, and so when she finally learned of her brother’s relationship with Sherlock, she was quite smug about it.

“Well, well, well...”  She said slyly, a grin on her face.  “John ‘I’m not gay’ Watson has finally come to terms with reality.”  She joked, her hands on her hips.

John cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable and ignoring her comment as Harry sat down on the sofa across from Sherlock.

“The pair of you do make an adorable couple, much nicer than you and that Morstan woman.”  Harry told John without thinking.  “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that…”

Harry fidgeted, wondering why she never could keep her mouth shut about some things.

John looked ill at ease, biting his tongue to keep from saying something rude.

“Probably not.”  Sherlock told her, detecting a trace of rum coming from her direction.

There was no doubt that she was a little tipsy.

“Sorry, John.”  She apologised, biting her lip. 

John shrugged, and reminded her about the rules that he’d put in place for her.

Harry sighed.  “Loads of fun, you are.”  She grumbled.  “Honestly, what am I supposed to do while I’m here?  I’m not allowed to drink, not allowed to bring someone in for a bit of overnight company or have any ‘herbal relief’…  What a bore.”

Sherlock suggested that she look in the phone book for a hotel room should she be dissatisfied with the arrangement.

John knew that Harry was a bit short of cash at the moment, though he didn’t really feel comfortable giving her any money, since she would almost certainly spend it on her addictions.

“If you want me to go, I’ll go.”  Harry told him sharply, feeling offended.

She didn’t exactly want to be here, either.  But, what else could she do?

John cast Sherlock a bit of a dirty look, before turning to his sister.

“Please, stay.”  He told her patiently.  “It might be a bit dull for you, but it’s only for a few days.”

Harry frowned, wondering if John actually wanted her to stay or was just being polite.

But, it wasn’t as though she really had anywhere else to go.

“Yeah, all right.”  She said, feeling tired.  “I’d like to go lie down for a bit, if you don’t mind.  It’s been a long day, and I’m bushed.”

John nodded, thinking that she could use a nap as she left the den.

 

Harry had turned out to be a decent enough guest, though she did end up sneaking a bottle of vodka in and getting perfectly smashed.

John and Sherlock had gone out to work on a case, to come back in the evening to find Harry completely naked and dancing to AC/DC while she waited for her pizza to finish baking.

It had been a struggle to get her to put some clothes on, though John somehow managed it.

After pulling on a floral-printed nightdress, Harry went to check the pizza.

“Ah, no, you go sit down and I’ll take care of it.”  John told her firmly, which she didn’t like at all.

“Honestly, there’s no need to treat me like a child.”  She said evenly, slurring a little.

It wasn’t as though she lacked experience in going about her daily routine while drunk or high.

In fact, she was quite used to it, since she often indulged.

John took the pizza out of the oven, letting her know that it was cooked as he set it on a cooling rack.

She got up and took the pizza cutter out of the drawer, which John tried to convince her to give to him.

“Oh, stop worrying so much, Johnny.”  She told him with a hint of impatience, using the nickname that he hated so much and gently shoving him out of the way and cutting the pizza into four uneven slices.

Harry slid one onto a plate, offering it to her brother, who told her that he’d get his own.

She shrugged, and went into the den to offer it to Sherlock, who also declined.

“No wonder you’re so damned skinny… Don’t you ever eat?”  She asked him, shaking her head in disapproval.

Sherlock didn’t mind.

In fact, he actually liked Harry.

She was an uninhibited sort of person; she said what was on her mind and held nothing back, and wasn’t one to lie. 

Harry was genuine and true to herself, and her personality was quite a contrast to John’s.

It was little wonder that the siblings didn’t get along.

“When I need to.”  He answered, as Harry took a big bite of her fully loaded pizza.

John came in with his own piece, feeling hungry after a long day of work.

“So, what’re you two working on, then?”  She asked around her food, tucking it in her cheek as she spoke.

Harry had thought that what John and Sherlock did sounded greatly interesting.

“Nothing exciting.”  John answered, before Sherlock could say a word.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

It wasn’t that boring of a case at all, in fact, it was fairly interesting.

“But, what is it?”  Harry asked curiously, taking another bite and enjoying it thoroughly.  “What sort of criminal are you tracking down?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her just a bit about it, when John shot him a ‘don’t’ look, which didn’t get past Harry.

“Look, if you don’t trust me enough to tell me, fine.  Just say so.”  She told John, sounding a bit upset.

She tried to be a good person, to be a good sister, but it never was enough.

She and John never had gotten on very well from little on.

Harry had tried very hard to change, though it had done no good at all.

In fact, she supposed that in John’s eyes, she was even worse now.

Harry held a decent job, and had kept her life pretty well in order despite her addictions, not that it seemed to matter to her brother.

John seemed to forever see her as an immature addict brat and that was all.

Maybe she shouldn’t have asked if she could stay…

After all, John hadn’t even invited her to his last wedding, and it was only because she was staying over that she knew about the upcoming one.

He didn’t talk to her about anything important, and didn’t seem interested in maintaining a sibling relationship with her.

John sighed.

“Look, it isn’t that, Harry.  Honest.”  He tried to reassure her, though she didn’t believe him.  “It’s just…  Well, I think that hearing about the case might stir up some bad memories.”

Sherlock looked at Harry, realising why John had given him that look.

The case they were working on involved a missing child, and it didn’t look good at all.

 

Harry’s four year old daughter, the result of a one-night stand with a handsome stranger, had gone missing from a day-care facility six years ago.

No trace of Melody Eleanor Watson had ever been found, and Harry would not give up on finding her until she had solid evidence that Melody was dead.

Harry had been clean for nearly a decade when her daughter’s abduction had taken place, and she’d found herself turning back to drugs and alcohol to help numb the agony.

“Oh.”  Harry said grimly, connecting the dots.

John put an arm around her, and she set her plate on the coffee table and leaned into him.

Sherlock felt a twinge of pity for Harry.

He could only imagine what he would go through if Michael went missing, let alone a biological child.

Harry got up, looking absolutely miserable.

“I’m, uh, I’m going to just go to bed.”  She said, despite it being only seven o’clock in the evening.  “See you both in the morning.”

 

 

The next couple of days, John and Harry did a lot of talking, and John began to see that Harry really was trying very hard to get things together.

He had tried to persuade her to go to rehab, which she had disagreed with entirely.

“I can’t, John…  I’m not ready.”  She said in soft tones, feeling deep shame.

“What if you’re never ready?”  John asked gently, his hands folded in his lap.

Harry had thought about this for a moment.

“It doesn’t matter.”  She told him.  “I’m all right, really.  I can hold down a job and do it well, I maintain a social life, and the doctor says I’m in good health.”

John pressed his lips into a thin line.

“And, if you get a bad batch?  Or your liver starts to fail?”  John asked in agitation, needing her to understand the sorts of risks that she was taking.  “Your health will suffer sooner or later.  Do you think that I want to have to bury you any time soon?”

Harry blinked, and swallowed a bit hard.

“I wouldn’t have thought that you really cared, considering how much you’ve shut me out.”  She told him quietly, picking at a loose thread on her pale green dress.  “It isn’t as though we were ever that close, though it isn’t for a lack of trying on my part.”

John looked embarrassed.

“Yes, well, maybe that was wrong of me.”  He said, beginning to drum his fingers on his thigh.  “I just… I didn’t know how to deal with you.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open, feeling a surge of irritation.

“Deal with me?”  She asked indignantly, her cheeks turning pink as her anger rose.  “It wasn’t as though you ever had to pick me up from the clink more than a few times, or bail me out.  I’ve not committed any felonies under the influence, and I’ve never stolen anything to pay for my habits, either.”

“I’ve always taken care of myself, more or less.  All I ever needed from you was to be able to count on you, to be there for me the way that I’ve always been ready to be there for you.”

A tear slipped down Harry’s cheek, falling onto her dress.

“Instead, you shunned me.”  She said bitterly, wiping away tears.  “Most of the time I’ve tried calling or texting you, you couldn’t even be bothered to respond.”

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, thinking about how many times he had let the phone ring, or deleted her texts without even reading them first.

“I know… And, I’m sorry.”  He told her, meaning it.

Harry sniffed.

“I’ve always blamed myself for us not being close, being the black sheep and all.”  She admitted with a shake of her head, her blonde curls swaying.  “Maybe, I should just give up and leave you be.”

John’s jaw set.

He had never meant to cause his sister so much pain.

He hadn’t realised the damage he’d unintentionally inflicted.

“I know I haven’t been a very good brother.”  He started, feeling like a complete jerk.  “I want to make it up to you if I can.”

Harry looked into his eyes, looking awfully sad.

“Let’s start over.”  John suggested.  “What’s happened in the past, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Harry smiled bitterly.

“You say that, but I don’t think you mean it.  You’re just feeling guilty.”  She stated, brushing her hair out of her face carelessly.

John assured her that while he did indeed feel guilty, that he entirely meant his words.

“I want us to actually try and be a brother and sister.”  John told Harry.  “I’m willing to give it my best shot, if you are.”

Harry gave him a small smile.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”  She replied.  “And, you know that I’m more than willing.”

They continued to talk, and while Harry felt fairly certain that John’s sudden change of heart towards her wouldn’t last, she would take what she could.

 

 

A couple of days later, Harry’s flat was safe to go back to, the fumigators having done their job.

John promised to swing by soon, and encouraged her to visit (providing that she called first).

After she’d left, John leaned against the wall, letting out a breath.

“You really can’t stand her.”  Sherlock stated, going through the messages left on his website via his mobile.  “Why did you tell her that you wanted the two of you to be close, when it’s doubtful that you’ll actually be able to go through with it?”

John sighed heavily, knowing how difficult it would be to make a decent effort.

“Because, she’s my sister.”  He answered helplessly, raising his arms up in a shrug and letting them fall back down to his sides.

Sherlock knew better than to say anything against it.

Instead, he brought John in for a hug, comforting him.

 

 

While all of this was going on, Sebastian withered away in his cell, though Jerry had managed to become somewhat of a companion to him.

He would bring the odd treat from the kitchens, would fetch him some of the better books available, and would talk to him as though he were an actual human being instead of some pathetic waste of life.

Jerry’s kindness was having a positive impact on him, though Sebastian was struggling against it.

He wanted to be alone; he didn’t want to let anyone else close enough that he would risk more pain.

Still, he liked Jerry well enough.

He was amiable, genuine, and just a pretty good man all around.

Jerry had even gone so far as to try and find out what could be done to get him back into society, be granted an early release.

There wasn’t a terrible amount of hope in that regard, but there was a distinct possibility that it could happen.

Sebastian tried not to care about that.

Besides, what would he do after being granted his freedom?

There was nothing out there for him…

“If you started taking some of the classes offered here, that would look better for you.”  Jerry suggested, trying to be helpful.  “Might be useful once you get out, too.”

Sebastian sat on his bed, watching Jerry through tired eyes.

“I’m not interested.”  He said stubbornly, his voice gruff.  “Haven’t you gotten that yet?”

Jerry sighed.

“You don’t want to rot away in here more than you absolutely have to, do you?”  He asked in mild annoyance, wondering why Sebastian was being so hard-headed about this.

Sebastian shrugged.

His depression had worn him down too much, and the effect that it was having on his mind was easy to see.

Jerry glanced at his watch, frowning as he realised the time.

“I’ve got to get back to work…  But, I’ll see you later.”  He announced, seeing that his break was nearly over.  “Just think about it at least, all right?”

With that Jerry said good-bye and went to use the washroom before going back on shift.

Sebastian closed his eyes, leaning against the cold wall.

Maybe Jerry was right, maybe not.  He just didn’t know any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went in a bit of a different direction that I had thought it might, and I'm not sure how well it flows with what I've got already. If it stands out like a sore thumb, please do tell me so that I can fix it. I've never added another character like this so late in the story, and I'm not sure if it was the best direction to head down.


	16. Chapter 16

 

Over the coming weeks, Sebastian inevitably decided to try out a sewing class.

He needed something to keep from going insane.  It wasn’t the incarceration that bothered him so much as being unable to escape his own thoughts.

Memories of Jim, and anger over his death, wouldn’t let him rest.

Sebastian thought that if nothing else, it was worth a try.  Besides, all of the items that worked out went to people in need, so at least it was something worth doing.

To his surprise, he found that he actually enjoyed it.  He wasn’t very good at the craft, but it still felt kind of good to do it.

Sebastian still kept himself withdrawn from the others, ignoring them when they spoke to him for the most part.

He just wasn’t up to socialising at this point, not that they seemed to understand that.  The other inmates didn’t bother him too much, the combination of his steely silence and his fierce appearance kept most of them at bay.  But, of course, there was the odd prisoner that would insist on trying to antagonise him.  Not that it worked most of the time.

 

As Sebastian did his best to keep his stitches clean, attempting vainly to create a green cotton shirt, he could feel eyes watching him.

He glanced up through the top of his eyes, spotting a young man with short faded purple hair and numerous poorly done tattoos covering most of the skin Sebastian could see.

The younger man quickly looked away, as though his eyes had accidentally wandered over to Sebastian, who went back to his work.

A few minutes later, the kid came over, sitting down across from him on the other bench seat, the table otherwise left unoccupied but for the two of them.

“The name’s Big D, you’re Moran, right?”  The skinny, freckled man asked, playing off any nervousness.

Sebastian set down what was in his hands, staring coldly at the young man.  “Does anyone actually call you by that ridiculous name?”  He asked tonelessly, crossing his arms over his bulky chest.

‘Big D’ blinked, trying to look cool and failing.  “Uh, yeah, some people do.”  He replied, clearing his throat.

Sebastian regarded him in disbelief, but said nothing more about it.

“What do you want, kid?”  He asked tiredly, wanting nothing more than for him to leave him be.

“Well, er…”  Big D started, wondering if he should say anything, but knowing that he had to try.  “You see, I’ve got a little brother.  Raised him myself, pretty much.  He’s always been good about staying in touch, never going more than a couple of weeks between letters, calls or visits.”

Sebastian began to continue his sewing, picking the fabric and needle back up.

Big D lowered his voice, leaning in a bit.

“He works, well, I guess he doesn’t work for him anymore, but Mark was working for your old boss, Jim Moriarty.”  Big D looked at him carefully.  “And, it’s been nearly two months since I’ve heard anything of my brother.  He was in a spot of trouble with his employer, last I heard, and I wondered if maybe you could use your connections to find out if he’s okay.”

Sebastian’s eyes bored into Big D’s, unsure of what to think.

Big D looked away, wondering if he’d just made a mistake.  He knew the sorts of things that Moran was capable of, and he hoped that he hadn’t earned himself a beating for his audacity.

This kid had a lot of gall to come up and talk to him about such things.  But, he was worried about his family, and Sebastian could understand that.

“Look, what’s the lad’s name?”  Sebastian asked, considering things a bit.

Big D frowned.  “I just told you that, his name’s Mark.”  He replied in confusion.

Sebastian sighed.  “Mark what?  Or maybe he goes by ‘Little D’?”

Big D chuckled.  “I like you.”  He said with a wide grin, before widening his eyes.  “No homo, dude.  I’m a regular pussy destroyer, if you get my drift.”  The kid nodded saucily, seemingly convincing himself more than anything.  “His last name is Calder.”

Sebastian could recall meeting such a person around four months back.

“Tall, lanky kid with short curly blonde hair?”  Sebastian asked, feeling confident that he knew exactly who Big D was talking about.

Big D nodded.  “Yeah, that’s him!”  He replied hopefully.  “What’s he up to, then, that he can’t drop his bruv a line?”

Sebastian rethreaded his needle, before shrugging.  “Can’t say.  Only met him briefly a few months ago.  But, as you say, he was in a bit of hot water.” 

Big D’s face dropped.  “I see.”  He stated dejectedly, looking down to the table.  “What, uh, what did he do, anyway?  He never did tell me that.”

Sebastian knew that this boy’s younger brother was likely no more, but he wasn’t sure if he ought to say anything.  Big D seemed unstable enough without having something like that to deal with.

“He stole quite a sum of money from my employer, and was unable to repay the amount taken.”  Sebastian answered, recalling being told about it.

Big D went pale, realising what could very well have happened.

Sebastian frowned.  He didn’t know why, but he felt like helping this kid if he could.

“Look, I’ll see what I can find out.  He could be just fine; I don’t know what happened, exactly.”  Sebastian told him, and Big D nodded wordlessly, looking hopeless.

Not long after that the bell rang, and it was time to head back to his cell.

 

 

The wedding day was to take place that coming Thursday, in only three days’ time.

John was far more relaxed about it than Sherlock, was meticulously going over every single detail, striving for perfection.

Sherlock wanted it to be the absolute best day of John’s life, for not even the tiniest thing to be out of place.

He knew that he was driving John crazy with it, but Sherlock couldn’t help that.

John deserved a perfect wedding day, and Sherlock would ensure that he would have it.

As he stared out the window in the den, his mind reeling with wedding details, John came up and kissed his cheek, startling him out of it.

“You’ve been standing there for hours, come lay down with me.”  John told him softly, looking up into his eyes.

Sherlock relented, his feet feeling quite tired.

He clasped John’s hand, and they walked into the bedroom.

 

John lay down on the bed, Sherlock by his side and using his chest as a pillow.

It was nice, just quietly laying there, the gentle sunlight splashing into the room.

“I’m not sure we need a rehearsal, Sherlock.”  John mentioned after some thought.

Sherlock’s brows knit together.  “Why not?”  He asked with a hint of indignance. 

“Well, for one, we already know the gist of things.  And, anyway, technically we’d be married after the rehearsal.  Kind of takes away from the actual wedding, I think.”  John pointed out.  “Not to mention, that you’ve already made the poor girl who’s baking the cake cry.  Twice.  I can only imagine what’ll happen if something’s a little off if we have a rehearsal.”

Sherlock put one of his long arms over John, getting more comfortable.

“I can give you the first two, but that cake baker should have known what she was doing.  I was merely pointing out important flaws so that she could make much needed improvement.”  He retorted stubbornly.

John let out a breath.  “Sherlock, you were far too hard on her for the simplest mistakes.”  He said, leaning his cheek against Sherlock’s soft curls.

Sherlock had been highly critical of the products, as well as her selling manner.

He had felt that she didn’t know everything that she ought to, that she hadn’t taken it seriously enough when she was five minutes late to their appointment, and that the cake samples could have been much better.  Among other things, of course.

“I know you want things to go well, and they will.”  John tried to reassure his fiancé.  “We should be enjoying this time, and you’re whipping yourself into a frenzy over it.”

Sherlock heard his mobile’s text alert go off, and he went to check his phone, but John held him back.

“Whatever it is, it can wait for a little while.”  John replied, leaning over Sherlock and kissing him sweetly.

Sherlock closed his eyes, kissing him back as John climbed on top of him.

John’s hands began wandering, and Sherlock’s skin was soon covered in goosebumps.

Sherlock’s own hands found their way to John’s hips, pulling him up so that his erection wasn’t constricted so uncomfortably under his lover’s weight.

Their mouths clashed furiously, John grinding against Sherlock’s crotch, the friction adding so much heat to the fire that had begun to crackle lustily.

 

They took their time with one another, making it a contest of who would last the longest.  It was exquisite torture, as they took turns trying keenly to make the other come, while the other tried desperately to delay the gratification.

John especially had seemed to delight in this, Sherlock’s animalistic whimpers and groans of frustration and concentration nearly putting him right over the edge.  Sherlock’s face, screwed up with the sheer effort it took not to explode into orgasm then and there, was the sexiest thing John had ever seen.

As Sherlock’s breath hitched sharply in his throat, John took his mouth away from Sherlock’s leaking cock and kissed him deeply, letting Sherlock taste himself as their tongues danced fervently.

In the end, John had lost the game, but only just.  Sherlock came intensely only a matter of seconds afterward, John’s body shuddering as intense volts of sexual electricity shot throughout him.

They were far too exhausted to clean up after their lovemaking, and they easily drifted into sated sleep, completely at peace.

 

 

Sebastian had managed to get a hold of Sam Brewer that evening, someone that he’d been work mates with and who wouldn’t cast suspicion on him if he talked to.

“I’m trying to find out about a kid by the name of Mark Calder.”  Sebastian said into the black receiver of the pay phone.

“Calder?”  Sam repeated, thinking.

Sebastian nodded.  “Uh-huh.  I’m trying to find out where he is now.”  He said in mild explanation.

Considering that their conversation was being recorded, they couldn’t say too much, but that was working out all right.

“I’ll see what I can do.”  Sam replied, hanging up.

Sebastian placed the phone back in the cradle, and sat down in the ugly room with the ancient television set that always seemed to be on.

A muscular Asian man sat on the beat up sofa, watching football.

Sebastian sat down on a wooden chair, glancing up at the screen.

It had been some time since he’d watched football.  In his teens, he’d never missed going to a Man U game.  He still had the scarf he always wore when he’d gone, locked away in a storage locker with the small amount of belongings that he had left from his younger days.

“Footie fan?”  The man on the couch asked him.

“Used to be.  Not so much, anymore.”  Sebastian replied.

The man said nothing more, and neither did Sebastian.

As Sebastian sat there, he began to think about things.

He had his life ahead of him, and no idea what to do with it.  He wasn’t even sure if he wanted it, though he’d never commit suicide, even if he had experienced the odd thought about it once in a while.

No, he would have to sort things out.


	17. Chapter 17

Greg had secretively organised a bachelor party for John and Sherlock, and had managed to keep them both out of the loop entirely.

He and Philip would take John out first, leaving Sherlock at 221 B.

Afterwards, John would be dropped back off at the flat and Sherlock would be brought out, even if he had to be dragged him along.

 

After picking John up for what was presumed to be a simple drink at the pub, Greg drove him over to his place.

“What’s going on?”  John asked, half-guessing as a sly look came over Greg’s face.

“Why don’t you follow me and find out?”  Greg asked in return, shutting the car off, locking it, and heading inside.

 

Greg opened the door to reveal a full keg, two large wrapped boxes, and a few smaller gifts, along with a few plates of miscellaneous goodies.

John looked around, impressed.

Philip strolled in, grinning at John.

“Big day, tomorrow.”  Philip greeted him genially.  “Any wedding day jitters, yet?”

John shook his head.  “No, not really.”  He replied in a friendly tone.

Philip nodded, looking towards the gifts.

“Get me anything good?”  John asked jokingly, gesturing toward the items.

Philip broke into a huge smile.  “You could say that.”  He stated, biting his lip.

Greg frowned at him, not wanting him to give anything away.

“Here, uh, why don’t you let me take your coat for you.”  Greg offered, and John obliged.

After hanging the jacket on the coatrack, Greg tapped the keg skilfully, bringing both of his guests a mug each, before grabbing one himself.

“I was thinking maybe we could swap stories, get a little drunk, and listen to some good tunes.  Get a bit rowdy, even.”  Greg told John, who tasted the beer.

“Sounds good to me, but what about Sherlock?”  He asked, feeling a touch guilty.  “Or did he set this up or something?”

Greg shook his head, as Philip looked through his record collection.

“Nah, we’re going to pick him up just before dropping you home.  I’m going to text him, he’ll come here thinking I’ve got some sort of case for him, and we’ll send you off home in a cab before he arrives.”  Greg explained, hooking his left thumb through a belt loop on his trousers.  “I couldn’t think of a better way to give you separate bachelor parties.”

John nodded.  “Yeah, no, that’s a great idea.”  He remarked, his eyes wandering over to the presents.  He always had loved unwrapping gifts.

It wasn’t really about getting something so much as revealing what sort of treasure was hidden inside.

“Why don’t you open one?”  Philip suggested, and Greg encouraged John.

John picked up one of the smaller gifts.

“Ah, go big or go home, John.”  Greg told him, taking a drink from his half-empty mug.

Greg shrugged, and tugged on the red ribbon tying the larger of the two packages.

After tearing the paper and reaching for the box flap, a woman shot enthusiastically out of the top of the box, her pretty mouth curved into a voluptuous smile.

John blinked, feeling his cheeks ruddy.

He should have known to expect something like this from Greg.

The woman, who looked to be of African descent and was kitted out in a red and white lace lingerie set locked her eyes on him, climbing out of the box seductively.

John could hear Greg laughing and encouraging him to open the other one.

He did, and this time, a spry young man practically hopped out of the box, his tiny g-string leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

John cleared his throat, as the female put on some music and began to dance, the male joining her.

As the strippers paraded themselves around John, fawning over him liberally, Greg filmed it with his phone.

John blushed furiously.  “Come on, Greg, really?”  He asked, though he didn’t mind too much.

“You’ll want to document tonight, I guarantee it.”  Greg returned, paying close attention to the woman.  “Besides, it’s not like anyone’s going to have copies or anything.”

 

That was only the beginning to a wild night that John would always recall fondly.

The rest of his time at Greg’s flat was a lot of fun, and much raunchier than he’d have expected.

But, soon enough, it was time for him to go home.

 

Sherlock had received the same treatment, though he really hadn’t known what to do when it came to the strippers.

Sherlock had never been that attracted to very many people, and he’d never understood the appeal of strippers and prostitutes in the first place.

Still, he knew that Greg was acting as a friend, and so he kept from saying or doing anything rude.

It didn’t take much for him to become completely drunk.

Soon, he was spouting off about ash and all sorts of things that he knew and was good at, before making drunken deductions about the strippers.

Sherlock actually did have some fun that night, and though he wouldn’t remember too much of it the next day, what he would be able to recall would be of good times.

 

 

 

The next day, Sherlock awoke in his chair, feeling a bit stiff.

He tried to remember how he’d gotten there, but couldn’t.

He chalked it up to the party last night, and looked over to the clock on the wall.

It was only 6:45.  It would be another four and a quarter hours until the wedding.

That was good, because he had a wicked hangover.

Luckily, he knew of a few excellent home remedies to fully cure such an ailment, and he quickly mixed up a glassful.

He downed it in a few gulps, his head aching terribly.

Sherlock didn’t want to wake John, and since he had woken up with a certain amount of energy, he decided to leave a note and take a walk.

 

As he strolled about, he went over some of the plans for that day, as well as certain honeymoon surprises that he had in mind.

John had insisted that they needn’t go away on holiday, but that they could spend their first couple of weeks as married men right there on Baker Street.

Sherlock knew quite well that John had always wanted to go to South Island, New Zealand.

Which was why he’d had booked a flight, and a lovely hotel for them there weeks ago.

 

Sherlock passed by a bakery, the fresh scent of baked bread wafting over to him.

He went in, picking up a few Eccles cakes.  John had always been fond of those, and besides, Sherlock also rather enjoyed them.

He glanced at his watch after paying, deciding to head back home.

As he walked, he felt a certain giddiness; a contentment that ran deep.

Sherlock Holmes had never been a very happy man for the most of his life.

After meeting John, however, he’d found himself beginning to enjoy life a bit more.

John had stirred something up in Sherlock that he hadn’t even known existed within himself.

A more human side of him that had been shoved down into the dark recesses, a practice that Mycroft had helped instil when they were both children.

And, now that he was getting married, a thing that Sherlock never had even fleetingly expected to ever do, a certain type of joy was taking hold of him.

He felt his lips curl into a gentle smile, and a more energetic spring in his step as he walked down the street.

This was doubtless to be the absolute finest day of his life.

 

 

That day was to hold another important event; Sebastian Moran had applied for parole a few weeks back, and a trial was scheduled for that morning.

He hadn’t even thought that a trial would even occur.  But, it seemed as though Jim had been right about him being let off relatively easy.

The charges that he had been arrested on weren’t nearly as bad as they could have been, though for the life of him he didn’t understand why.

Obstruction of justice, unlicensed weaponry in his possession, along with a couple of other more serious charges had been made against him.

There must have been a reason as to why, though he just couldn’t find it.

Perhaps since those bastards had gotten what they had really wanted, they didn’t really care that much about him.

Of course, just because he was to have a trial, that didn’t equate to his freedom being regained.

Jerry had persuaded him to apply for parole in the first place.

He’d only done it to shut the man up, really.

Jerry was a good enough guy, but Sebastian couldn’t figure him.

He didn’t seem the sort to be a prison guard, and why on earth Jerry had taken such a shine to him he didn’t know.

Sebastian considered him somewhat of a friend.

Jerry had been pretty good to him; the extra books, occasional snack, legal advice, and so on had been obvious attempts to get on Sebastian’s good side.

He strongly suspected that Jerry wanted something of him.

Nobody was nice just because they could be.  Not in his experience, anyway.

 

 

Sherlock entered the flat to find John looking pained.

He was evidently as hung over as Sherlock had been.

“Sit down.”  Sherlock encouraged John, helping him to the sofa, before mixing up another batch of his remedy.

Sherlock passed the glass to John, who wrinkled his nose.

“Looks like dirty dish water that’s been sitting for a few days…”  John grumbled, sniffing it.  “Smells like it, too.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  “You’ll be back to normal within five minutes of its consumption.”  He assured John, who took a small sip.

“It’s best if you don’t take your time with it; the quicker you drink it, the better.”  Sherlock advised him from the kitchen, opening the plastic tray of Eccles cakes and placing two on separate plates.

Sherlock brought them in, setting the dishes on the coffee table as John gulped down the rancid looking concoction.

When his glass was empty, John pulled it away from his mouth with a shiver of disgust.

“That was, without a doubt, the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth!”  He complained, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

Sherlock gave a subtle grin, recalling a certain other time that John had made that same remark.

That time, however, it had been because of a particularly hideous lubricant that had promised to taste of bubble-gum, but had instead ended up being more the flavour of deep-fried cat vomit.

Sherlock gestured to the small plate in front of John, who closed his eyes and looked nauseous.

“I can’t, not right now.”  He said, rubbing his temples and looking pale.

Sherlock waited patiently for a few moments, granting John soothing quiet as his hangover waned.

“Feeling better?”  Sherlock asked, once John opened his eyes again.

“Yeah, actually.”  He replied, a touch surprised.  He reached for the cake, his hunger beginning to make itself felt.

John bit into the pastry, delighting in the freshness and flavour.

As Sherlock finished his own, his thoughts strayed once more to the wedding.

He was obsessed with it.

This was different than anything else, and to have his mind so preoccupied with something other than work related issues was a strange experience.

He wasn’t used to thoughts that he couldn’t do much with; problems he could solve were another matter, but to actually be fretting over a simple event like this…

Sherlock steepled his hands, looking pensive as he stared off into space.

John knew better than to try and talk to him when he was like this; there was no rousing him from his thoughts in that state.

 

 

Sebastian’s trial commenced at 8:00 a.m. sharp.

He’d been conveyed to the courthouse by two guards that he’d never seen before, and who said nothing to him.

His was to be the first case of the day, which meant that the judge might be in better spirits than after sitting through case after case for hours.

His lawyer, Lawrence Spelger, knew him fairly well.

He had represented Sebastian in the past, mainly when Sebastian was younger, and had owed him a favour for ‘taking care’ of his son’s violent stalker last year.

Spelger was a shark when it came to the court room, and so Sebastian knew that with the relatively mild charges against him and his lawyer at his side, that he had a good chance of getting out.

Sebastian was still mopey, his depression still enveloping him in a fog, and he wasn’t altogether certain if he even cared if his parole would be granted or denied.

He had no plans, either way.  He would take things as they came, and deal with him as he could.

He regretted that it would be impossible for him to track down the Holmes brothers and serve them with justice.

Then, maybe, he would feel just a little better.

But, that wasn’t likely to happen.

Being able to kill Sherlock, that was a possibility.  But, Mycroft?  Not a chance.

And, the elder Holmes was the one who had chosen to slaughter Jim.  Sebastian wanted his blood more than anything.

He wouldn’t try it, though.

He had killed too many people already, and murdering either of those men wouldn’t bring the man he loved back to him.

No, instead, other people would feel the agony of their loved one’s loss.

Sebastian sighed.

His lawyer spoke to the judge, presenting him very well, as Sebastian wondered why he was even bothering.

There was nothing he wanted on the outside of prison.

There was nothing that he wanted that he could be given, not in this life.

But, the judge soon made her choice; Sebastian was granted parole, and would be released that afternoon.

Sebastian’s lawyer looked much more pleased about this than Sebastian felt.

It was a victory, he supposed, though it didn’t feel much like one.

“Come on, buddy, you’ve won!”  Lawrence said, giving him a hearty congratulatory slap on the shoulder.

Sebastian nodded.  “Yeah, I guess I have.”  He replied, trying to sound pleased, but failing.

Lawrence shook his head.

“Look, I know you’re going through a rough patch, but give it time.  You’ll be right as rain before you know it.”  He told Sebastian, trying to help.  “Getting back into society ought to help.”

Sebastian nodded again, as the same guards from earlier began escorting him back to the vehicle he’d come there in.

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

By 10:30, everyone had gathered at the church.

It wasn’t an overly large wedding, but of course, it wasn’t a small one by any means.

Mrs. Hudson, Mary, Greg, Molly…  All of their best friends were there, along with John and Sherlock’s families.

Sherlock hadn’t been especially keen on his family attending, but in the end had allowed himself to be talked into it.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were beaming gleefully, thrilled that at least _one_ of their sons was finally getting married and settling down properly.

Mycroft felt rather out of place, though he had offered his congratulations to his younger brother and to John, and had even attempted to make small talk with one or two of the more intellectual attendees. (Which hadn’t gone overly well, considering that he still considered even the smarter people there to be compete idiots and it showed)

 

Soon, everyone was arranged in the polished wooden pews, waiting for the ceremony to begin, as John and Sherlock prepared themselves to take that momentous step.

Even though they had lived together for years, and knew each other inside and out, getting married would change things somehow and they both knew and understood that well.

They were ready.

 

 

The wedding had been beautiful, it had gone exceptionally well, the only interruption having been Michael beginning to cry hungrily as Sherlock began his vows.  Mary had been able to quiet the tot fairly quickly, and the rest of the ceremony had been unspoiled.

Afterwards, there was a delightful reception, and everyone had a great time.  Well, except for Mycroft, who never had been one for such get-togethers.

After a few hours of dancing and merriment, John and Sherlock left the hall that had been rented out for the occasion, and got into the gleaming white limousine which would take them to the airport.

They were in such a blissful fog, that neither of them had noticed the two dildos fixed to the back of the car with a little ‘Just Married’ sign hanging below.

 

Sherlock had already packed their suitcases, which were secreted between the middle seats of the limo.

After getting in, the newly married couple shared a kiss, as the car began rolling away, their friends and family heartily seeing them off.

It wasn’t long before John figured out that they were not on their way home.

“What have you got planned?”  John asked, as Sherlock looked at him mysteriously.

“You’ll see.”  Was his simple reply.

 

 

After returning back to the prison, Sebastian had been shown into a musty office that looked as though hadn’t been updated for at least thirty years, with the exception of an archaic computer that sat on the desk.

The bald man with glasses that sat behind the desk gestured for him to sit down, smoothing his moustache before making sure he had all of the appropriate documents in front of him.

“Your stay with us has been a good one, I trust?”  He asked by way of a joke, apparently expecting Sebastian to at least fake a smile at his poor attempt at humour.

Sebastian’s face stayed blank, and he ignored the question.

The man cleared his throat.  “Right, well, I hope that we won’t be seeing you back here again.”  He stated firmly, his tone more serious than before.  “You can call me Jay, if you like.  I’ll be going through all of the release papers with you.  It’ll take a while, there’s a fair amount that you need to read and agree to.”

Jay read out the first paper to him, which annoyed Sebastian.  He was fully literate, after all.

Jay gave him a mildly apologetic look.  “Sorry, but it’s mandatory that I read these to you.”  He explained with a shrug.  “Too many inmates have been through this sort of process and then claimed that they hadn’t understood this or that, and we ended up in hot water.  Now, I’ve got to go through it verbally and ensure that nothing is misconstrued.”

Sebastian gave a small sigh.  This man’s voice and slow reading pace would be a chore to put up with.

“Yeah, fine, let’s get on with it.”  He replied, looking tired.

Jay cleared his throat again, and continued in his monotone.

 

 

At the airport, Sherlock was vigilant not to let anything give away where they were headed to.

Even after boarding the plane, John hadn’t a clue.

Sherlock had even arranged for the staff members to be in on it, and since they were to be the last ones on board, an announcement had gone out to the other passengers not to give their destination away.

That had been a good idea on Sherlock’s part, as halfway through the flight, John had tried asking a passing steward where they were going while Sherlock used the washroom.

Being none the wiser for it, John turned to the woman behind him and asked.

Three people behind him shrugged dumbly.

“Does anybody know where this blasted plane is headed?”  John called out.  His curiosity was insufferable now.  He hated not being in the know.

Sherlock had come out of the lavatory just in time to watch as much of the passengers in their immediate area feigned ignorance fairly convincingly.

He chuckled, quite amused at John’s outburst.

Still, he wasn’t about to let the cat out of the bag.  It would be worth the wait.

He sat down next to John, clasping his hand gently and rubbing the back of it with his thumb in a soothing fashion.

 

 

After what felt like decades, Sebastian finally got out of that office and was led to another area to obtain his personal effects.

He changed into his own clothes in the washroom, the memory of Jim hugging him shortly before he was executed sprang to mind.

These were the same exact clothes that he’d been wearing then.

They hadn’t been washed since then, Sebastian realised. 

He could detect the just the slightest trace of Jim’s signature cologne on them.  Or, perhaps that was just his mind tricking him.  Either way, he could swear that he smelt that familiar scent.

He felt a lump form in his throat, his vision getting blurry as tears began to cloud his sight.

Sebastian sat down on the toilet, feeling wholly lost and a bit dizzy.

He was overwhelmed.

He hadn’t a thing worth living for, not now.  What was the point of his future?

Nobody out there cared a thing about him, he had nowhere to go, and nobody that he could possibly consider an actual friend.

He sniffed, wiping his tears away on a sleeve, before standing up and trying to calm himself.

He would find out where Jim was buried, that would be the first thing he would do.

If anything mattered to him then, it was that.

He exited the washroom, and freely left the building after getting the information that he needed from a guard at the front.

 

 

Sebastian walked such a long way to find the cemetery that Jim Moriarty was buried in.

The bastards hadn’t even given his love a headstone, only a simple grey brick in the ground with the most basic of information on it.

Sebastian vowed to change that.

He would find a way to give Jim a lasting monument, a fine one that would convey his respects.

Sebastian stood at the side of the grave, an emotional hurricane ripping him to shreds on the inside.

He’d never visited a grave before; what did a person do at one, exactly?

He sniffled.  He considered talking to Jim, though he doubted if he would hear what he might have said.

But, even if he had attempted to speak, the words simply would not have come out.

Instead, he stared emptily down at the grave, just thinking about Jim.

Sebastian stood there for nearly an hour, before he slowly meandered out of the cemetery, slumped over and incredibly disconsolate.

He had money in a bank account.  A decent amount, which would see him through for a very long time to come.

He headed to a seedy hotel, renting a room until the next day, deciding to look for a more permanent housing situation when he left.

Jerry had offered him a place to stay if his trial had gone well, perhaps Sebastian would take him up on that.

 

 

When the plane finally touched down and they had been let off, John quickly found out where they were.

His mouth hung open for a moment.  He’d never said a word about New Zealand, though since it was Sherlock, John wasn’t that shocked that he’d figured it out.

He went over to Sherlock without a word, enveloping him in a massive hug.  “Thank you.”  He said meaningfully, as Sherlock hugged him back.

Sherlock smiled at him, very pleased at his reaction.  “You’re more than welcome.”  He told John softly, kissing the top of his head.

A man with his wife looked over in disgust.  “Fags.”  He spat with a shake of his head.

Sherlock stepped away from John, and after making a couple of excellent deductions, quickly explained that his wife was, in fact, a lesbian.

The wife didn’t say a word in her defence, in fact, she looked almost relieved as her husband swiftly realised that Sherlock’s words were true.

He stood there flabbergasted, as though his something in his mind had snapped.

Sherlock walked back over to John, offering his arm.  “Shall we?”  He asked, not looking back at the man that had been so rude.

John took his arm, thinking it a bit strange that Sherlock had reacted like that.

It wasn’t the first time that someone had said something rude to them in that vein.  Often, Sherlock didn’t acknowledge such comments at all.

Sherlock supposed that it was just the heightened emotion due to the wedding that had urged him to react as he had.

 

 

After a two hour car trip, the now Watson-Holmes duo walked into their luxurious hotel suite.

It was simple, but quite elegant.

The room had a glorious view of the mountains and a shimmering lake, which took John’s breath away.

It was perfect.

After a long journey, they were both weary.  They lay down on the large, heart-shaped bed, cuddling one another as they languidly fell into slumber.

 

 

Over the next couple of days, Sebastian had not only found himself his own flat, but a job as well.

It had been entirely by fluke that he’d ended up employed.

He’d simply walked into a building to ask for directions to the closest grocery shop, and since the attendant had been busy, had waited his turn.

He noticed a row of locked display safes, one of which a very state of the art model.  Sebastian went over to it, to test out his skills.

It had been a while since he broken into a safe, and it wasn’t as though he was committing a crime here, so this was the perfect opportunity to see how rusty he’d gotten.

He opened it in under three minutes.  Sebastian read the paper taped to the shelf below it.  He gave a small snort when he read that the safe was ‘virtually impossible’ to get into without knowing the codes beforehand.

One of the employees, who had been watching him from behind a desk, walked over to him.

He’d expected to have been chewed out for what he’d just done, but instead was asked if he worked in the industry.

Sebastian alluded that he used to work in such a field.  It was sort of true, after all.

“We’re looking for an expert locksmith…  I don’t suppose you’re looking for a job, are you?”  The middle-aged man asked him hopefully.  “One of our competitors has taken four of my best employees away…  It’s not easy being the little guy.”

Sebastian was caught off-guard.

“Well…  Yeah, I guess that I am.”  He replied, and the man grinned.

“Great!  How would you like to start working for us Tuesday morning, 10:00 a.m. sharp?”  The man asked, offering Sebastian his hand.  “I’m Stew, by the way.”

Sebastian shook Stew’s hand, introducing himself.

“Very glad to meet you, lad!”  Stew told him honestly, adjusting his hat over his greying hair.  “Now, what can I help you with?”

Sebastian explained that he only needed directions, and Stew happily told him just how to get to his destination.

 

 

Over the next few weeks, things went very well for everyone.

Sherlock and John spent their honeymoon completely enjoying the location and one another quite thoroughly, Greg reconciled with his wife, Mycroft actually found a woman nearly as intelligent as he (they hit things off really well and are currently dating steadily) and Sebastian was getting back on his feet fairly well.  Harry had decided to go to rehab, and was making a stronger attempt to better herself.

 

In the months that followed, Michael began learning to walk, John and Sherlock went on to solve one of the most baffling cases that London had ever had, and Sebastian was able to furnish Jim’s grave with a splendid onyx headstone that was engraved with kind words and a handsome photograph.

Sebastian did, in fact, track down Big D’s little brother, who turned out to have been beaten nearly to death, but had lived.  Big D ended up becoming Sebastian’s best friend, and eventually they ended up as flatmates.

Harry did get herself completely clean of all drugs, quit drinking completely, and found herself a social circle that was very supportive.

She did eventually find out what had happened to her daughter, thanks to Sherlock’s help.

After following a potential lead which took them to Michigan, Sherlock was able to deduce that Melody had been abducted and taken to America and sold to an infertile couple.

Mr. and Mrs. Langston had ‘adopted’ the girl, who had struggled and fought them, wanting nothing but her mother.

They had been told that she was an orphan, and that she still missed her mother, but that with love and attention that it would soon pass since she was so very young.

The man who’d sold her to them had even created believable documents for them, including a well-made birth certificate listing them as the parents.

One night, only a couple of weeks after they’d adopted Melody, Mrs. Langston had come home after work to find that the nanny had lost track of the girl.

She was nowhere in the house at all, and in the end, it had turned out that Melody had escaped through the doggy door and had been trying to find her mother, when she was struck and killed by a speeding motorist.

While all of this had been very hard to hear, Harry had finally been able to start healing afterwards.

Her daughter’s absence had left an open wound that would not close, and learning that Melody was gone forever made things final, and over time, that wound would be repaired.

Of course, there would always be a rough scar in its place.

It took some time, but Harry Watson was eventually able to put it behind her, while keeping Melody in her heart and her memories.

Having closure meant so very much. 

Harry was finally able to put her daughter to rest in her mind.

 

In the end, nearly everyone ended up in a pretty good place.  Things had turned out better than most of them would have expected.

I suppose that it could be said that they all lived ‘happily ever after’.


End file.
